A Stranger in the Promised Land
by serpant-sorcerer
Summary: PART II: Harry Potter thought that he had found a way home but something went wrong. Now he finds himself trapped in another dimension, in which someone else was cursed with the famous scar, and Tom Riddle never became the Dark Lord.
1. Upon Closer Inspection

After the hardships of _A Stranger in an Unholy Land_, Harry Potter thought that he had found a way home. However something went wrong. Now he finds himself trapped in yet another dimension, one where his parents were killed, but in which someone else was cursed with the famous scar. Harry, having retained his unique abilities, and trusting the one person he promised himself he never would, he must now prepare the scar-bearer for the final showdown with the Dark Lord.

**Chapter I **

**Upon Closer Inspection**

"_Every problem is an opportunity in disguise"_

_Anon_

_**"A student is here to see you, headmaster" began the professor. Dumbledore must have nodded, for the Walrus stepped aside and Harry stepped into the office. It had totally changed. The furniture was different, the feel was different and the man himself was different. Harry's jaw dropped as he stood before Headmaster T. M. Riddle.**_

"You!" gasped Harry, his entire body freezing in horror. _This can't be!_ Everything had gone correctly. He couldn't be in the right world! He must have gone to yet another world! What went wrong? Harry felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. He felt sick, chills ran up and down his spine and a shiver reached from his fingers to his toes. How could it have gone so wrong? Dumbledore and Flamel between them had agreed that the calculations were right. They were the wisest men in centuries. How had it gone so badly wrong? He had thought the other world was bad, but this…this was just awful! Riddle was…he couldn't even think it.

Tom Riddle rose slowly from his chair, surveying Harry with curious eyes. His eyes! They were not red, but a deep blue. The man before Harry was so similar to the Voldemort of the other universe that Harry instinctively took a step back, his hand flying to his wand. Riddle's eyes flashed to Harry's hand which was overtly wrapped around his wand, but made no effort to draw his own. Harry wished he had worn his armour. He stood ready, his eyes surveying Riddle.

Riddle was tall, and thin, just as Harry remembered. His skin was pale and smooth; his long black hair cascading over his shoulders by a few inches, framing his face in the light of the fire, giving him a haunted look. The Headmaster looked calmly into Harry's eyes, and Harry stared back. Emerald Green met Sapphire Blue as the two enemies locked eyes. Harry was surprised by what he saw; the Headmaster's eyes twinkled with a passion unknown to Lord Voldemort. There was kindness etched into the man's features even though he wasn't smiling. Harry found himself being sucked into those deep blue eyes. They reminded him so much of Dumbledore - but then he remembered exactly who he was facing. This was Tom Riddle: the man who murdered his parents, tried to kill his sister, murdered Cedric Diggory _twice_, and made his life Hell in more than one world. He was the enemy.

"Welcome back, Mr Potter," said Riddle softly. That voice! It was not the icy high-pitched hiss that caused grown men and trained Aurors to lose bladder control. Instead, it was a perfectly normal voice: soft, kind and gentle, just like the peaceful voice that he had heard in this office so many times before. But no! It was Riddle! He was the enemy! Harry must not fall for this deceit. This man had murdered his parents! "May I ask where you have been?" asked Riddle calmly. There was curiosity in his voice, but patience as well.

"Where's Dumbledore?" snapped Harry, unable to control his hatred of the man before him. Harry's mind was racing, trying to find answers to the sea of questions in which he was drowning. Who? What? How? Why? Dumbledore! If there was anyone who could explain what was going on it would be Dumbledore. Until he had spoken to Dumbledore, Harry would not do anything that Riddle told him to. His hand was on his wand, ready in an instant if the bastard tried anything.

"_Albus_ Dumbledore?" asked Riddle looking curiously at Harry. What was so confusing? Everyone had heard of Dumbledore; he was the most powerful wizard in centuries, everyone knew him. As a former headmaster, everyone must know the name - in fact there should be a painting on the wall? Harry wanted to check for a portrait on the wall, but didn't dare take his eyes off the murderer before him.

"Albus Dumbledore!" repeated Harry, his voice patronising and hostile. "Surely you've heard of him. He's the most powerful wizard in centuries." Harry half expected Riddle to contest that, claiming that he was more powerful, but that was not what happened next.

Riddle and the Walrus exchanged curious glances. Harry's eyes moved quickly between them. What was wrong? It was a simple question. Even in the other world, Dumbledore had been the only one Voldemort had ever feared - until Harry came along that was. Why could they not give a simple answer to a simple question?

"Thank you, Horace," said Riddle, nodding to the Walrus, who turned to leave. Riddle took a step around the side of the desk as the man called Horace left. There was a look in Riddle's eyes that, if Harry hadn't known better, he might have mistaken for concern.

"Harry, are you feeling alright?" asked Riddle after the door had closed behind 'Horace'. Riddle seemed to be appraising Harry's face - luckily the infamous scar was concealed by the hood. He slowly reached out for Harry with a pale hand. Harry instantly backed away, sliding his wand half way out of the holster. Riddle noticed his retreat and withdrew his own arm, palm raised in surrender.

"I'm fine, now answer the God-damned question," he snapped at Riddle. He expected a flash of anger from the Headmaster - No! He would not think of him as that - but all he saw was that insatiable calm that Dumbledore had. Who or what was this man?

"In the same place he's been for the last fifty years," sighed Riddle, a look that could be mistaken for regret or even pain on his face.

"And where might that be?" said Harry coldly. Riddle sank slowly back into his chair and sighed deeply before answering.

"Parkside Cemetery."

"WHAT?" cried Harry, the world seeming to close in around him. "He's dead?" No, it couldn't be! All his life Dumbledore had been there. Harry had not appreciated it at times, but he had been. If Harry was in trouble he could always go to Dumbledore who seemed to always be able to make things better. But now Dumbledore was gone, he was completely lost. No, he couldn't believe it. It had to be a lie!

"Harry," said Riddle kindly. "Albus Dumbledore was killed over fifty years ago by the Dark Lord."

"You are the bloody Dark Lord!" screamed Harry. He could feel the tears coming; they were seconds away from bursting. He couldn't believe it. It couldn't be true. He had to get out of here! This was all wrong!

"Harry…" said Riddle, staring at him.

"NO!" screamed Harry, causing Riddle to jump. He had had enough. This was the wrong world! He had to go back! He was not staying here! He had to find a way home! Before anyone could move to stop him, Harry bolted out of the door and down the steps. As he sprinted down the deserted corridor, he felt the tears start to come. His anguish just drove him harder. He ran past empty classrooms and suits of armour, ignoring the orders to stop from teachers and prefect, and not even responding to Peeve's volley of rotten peaches. Something had gone wrong; he was in the wrong world. How had it happened, why had it happened? Could he fix it, could he really get back home? Was he doomed to float from universe to universe until, by luck, he found the right one? He would probably be so old by that time that he wouldn't even remember what his world was like. He didn't want to think about it.

Down the stairs three at a time and towards the Entrance Hall Harry ran. He would normally have stopped from exhaustion by now but desperation kept him going. Out through the door into the cold night he went, opening the gate and breaking free of Hogwarts. He finally slowed to a walk just beyond the gate, but he kept moving. He walked briskly, ignoring the stitch building in his left side and the aching of every limb in his body. Harry marched through the cold yet calm night, ignoring the cries of wolves, and the Thestrals that swooped down and snatched small creatures from the ground. He didn't even notice the rain which now was gently falling from the heavens in a light shower.

His mind was racing. Could he get home? He had to find out. The house had been called Raven Wood Cottage. If he could Floo back there, he could use the Node to return to his world. No, he couldn't! He didn't know how – the 'address' he had been given was wrong. He couldn't go on to his own world, but he could go back to the world he had come from, back to the Unholy Land. Flamel might have given him the wrong 'address' but if he could get back there, the old man could then try again. At least they knew how to calculate an 'address'. Harry had all the parchments and the key in his bag. It would be simple to get back – Flamel had given him the 'return address' to get back for visits. This wasn't going to be a visit, but it would get him back onto safe ground. God damn it! Why had he left? He was safe and comfortable there. He had a family, friends, and there was no Dark Lord – he had seen to that. _If it ain't broke, don't fix it. _He should have stayed where he was.

He barged into the Three Broomsticks, knocking patrons aside as he passed, heading straight for the fireplace. He charged straight into a rather well built wizard covered in tattoo, spilling his pint of whatever all down his seemingly new navy blue robes.

"OI!" bellowed the drunken wizard. "WHAT'S YOUR GAME?" he slurred grabbing Harry's lapels with one hand and balling the other up. Harry's anguish, desperation and anger at himself got the better of him, and he reacted instantly with excessive force. He grabbed the man's wrist and twisted it violently to the right, forcing him to let go of Harry's cloak and with all his strength forced the palm-heal of his right hand up into the nose of the drunk. The man's nose exploded in a shower of blood. Had Harry been a little stronger he could have forced the broken nose fragments up into the man's brain killing him instantly. As it was, the drunk just fell to the floor, clutching his nose.

Harry didn't hang around - he grabbed the powder and Floo'd to Raven Wood. The cottage was just as dark and dismal as ever. His arrival had disturbed more dust and he had to cover his mouth to prevent a sneezing fit. He ran out of the front door and hopped the fence, every step taking him closer to the node, closer to being back home. He made his way along the path as fast as he could through the thicket ignoring the nettles and thorns.

At last he arrived at the top of the cliff, the cascade of water falling away beneath him. He didn't even bother to change form. Harry jumped off the cliff, spinning as he did to face the cliff. Brandishing his wand like a whip, he muttered the charm and a long thin chord shot out of his wand and adhered to the cliff, swinging Harry back in towards it, through the water and into the tunnel. He ambled along as quickly as possible, ignoring his damp clothes. He only had one thought on his mind: get to the Node; go home! He didn't know what had gone wrong, or why, and he didn't care. He had to get back to Flamel, to Dumbledore, to someone who could help. He had to get out of this nightmare.

The cave stood just as he had left it, a dark ominous cavern with jagged rocks that came eerily out of the darkness, like a sea of knives, casting vicious shadows on the wall. Harry cut straight across the circle, guided by his wand light, straight towards the globe. The sphere stood as it had in the other world, almost identical, except that it was more dusty. Harry used his sleeve to clear the dust and found the hole.

He blew into it, releasing a cloud of dust straight into his eyes. Wiping them on his sleeve and cursing his stupidity, Harry swore into the darkness. The word was reflected back at him by the vast cave, as if it were mocking him. Able to see again, Harry removed the key from his bag and unwrapped it. He twisted, just as Flamel had done, extending the diamond to the top of the key. Then turning it upside down so the diamond went in first, Harry pressed the key into the port.

_CLUNK!_

The diamond had gone in, but something was stopping the rest of the key from following. There must be something lodged in there.

"_Scourgify,"_ he muttered. The dirt in the port disappeared instantly and Harry could see that the inside of the pedestal was in fact gold. It was just stone around the top. Harry pressed the key into the lock once more.

_CLUNK!_

Again, the key refused to go in. Harry pushed down hard, but to no avail; it refused to slide in. Holding his wand close, Harry inspected the key. Did it have to go in a certain way? No, surely not; it was a regular octagon with no groves or lines on it. It was fully extended, so why didn't it go in?

Lowering his light, Harry peered into the hole. To his horror he saw that the inside of this one was only a hexagon. He gasped in horror. The key would never fit! It was the wrong shape. He knew better than to try to make changes to such a powerful magical object. For all he knew it would destroy the machine and the whole world he was in. He couldn't activate the machine! Harry's legs gave way beneath him and he collapsed on the floor of the cave. Tears returned to his eyes and he put his head in his hands. He was stuck here!

Why oh why had he left the other place? He had a family there, he could have been happy, but no; his helping people thing had gotten the better of him and he had to leave. Just like he always did, he tried to do what's right and had ended up getting into a worse situation that he had been before, only this time there was no Dumbledore to bail him out. This time he was on his own and he didn't know what to do. He wasn't as clever as Flamel and Dumbledore. He didn't know what was wrong. He was stuck here, in this nightmare of a world unable to leave. He was marooned: never to be set free. He would die in this nightmare. Tears flowed freely down his cheeks as he cried, his sobs echoing off the cold, hard, unwelcoming, walls of the cave. In a reflection of how much he had changed, Harry's only thought was that he wanted his mother.

_Why was I so stupid?_

Harry hit his fist into the ground hard. He deserved the pain for being such an idiot. He wished he were dead, anywhere other than right here, right now. Tears came faster. All his pain and suffering in the Unholy Land had been for nothing. This was supposed to be the Promised Land, but it was even worse than the first one. _A Stranger in the Promised Land_, mused Harry, shaking his head in anguish. Was his suffering ever going to end? It seemed not. He was stuck here.

If was several minutes before he managed to calm himself and to think clearly. He would have to stay here, have to make a living in this world. Riddle was headmaster, not the Dark Lord. If there was no Dark Lord, this place might be all right. If there was no Voldemort, then he wouldn't be in any Prophecy and he wouldn't be the Boy-Who-Lived. If there was no Dark Lord, his parents wouldn't have been murdered. What the hell was going on here? This place was more confusing than the last. At least in this one he wasn't a murderer. He was a no one – which in a way was a blessing, he could stay below the radar.

He shivered in his wet clothes; his teeth were chattering. He rose to his feet, drying his eyes and then his clothes, the second with his wand. He couldn't stay here. As much as he hated to admit it, he would have to return to Hogwarts. He didn't have the papers, money or resources to go by himself and he wasn't of age which limited his options considerably. Hogwarts was his only choice. At least from there, he could rest and it would give him time to find a way out of this mess.

_Remember, Harry, every problem is an opportunity in disguise,_ he told himself. Though this one was wearing a bloody good disguise.

Sadly, he got to his feet and began the trek back to Hogwarts. His feet dragged as he lacked the enthusiasm to do anything but plod onwards. What was he going to do? Finish NEWTs, get a job and live out his life? He would be placed back into Gryffindor and live out a boring life, knowing that he didn't belong, knowing that he should be somewhere else, yet unable to be so. It was no better than living the lie he would have had to in the Unholy Land. The trouble was he had failed his world; they had no saviour, no Boy-Who-Lived. Voldemort was probably in power already, with Hogwarts as flat as a pancake. All those deaths were his fault.

He didn't even notice the rain. As he left the Three Broomsticks, the heavens opened and it began to pour. Harry was drenched in seconds but hardly noticed. So deep was his despair that when he next looked up he was in front of the Fat Lady. His feet had taken him to Gryffindor Tower without him thinking. He turned around and walked slowly up to the gargoyle, which had been left open, and up the steps to the door. He took a deep breath, knowing that on the other side of the door was a man who had the same blood and body of the man who killed his parents. He had to let that go. For all intents and purposes, Headmaster Riddle was a different man. He had to let it go. Harry tried to calm himself. _You are not the other Harry, just as he is not Voldemort. _He took a deep breath and then knocked three times.

"Come," said a voice calmly.

Harry pushed the door open and stepped inside the office once more. This time he found the room to be completely empty. The desk was tidier than Dumbledore kept his; it was more ordered and there seemed to be less innocence about it. Professor Riddle must be stricter than Dumbledore. What did the students think, since they didn't know of Voldemort? The shelves were lines with books, but they seemed to be in perfect order, rather than hicklety-picklety like Dumbledore kept his. The cabinets contained various equipments, including some rather ornate, but very dangerous looking blades. The lights were dimmer, the shadows bolder, the air cooler and the atmosphere, less inviting. This was the very thing he had prevented in Rose's world.

Harry noticed that the lamp on the desk was in the shape of a leering serpent, a large crystal in its mouth, glowing white and illuminating the desk. Tom Riddle was still the heir of Slytherin, however nice he appeared. Harry would have to watch his back. He fell to temptation in his world, it could still happen here. The image of Voldemort just before he died in the other universe crashed into his mind. Would he have to do it here? Was this Riddle as bad as the others? Looking around, there were other snakes around.

"Found what you're looking for?" hissed a voice. Harry jumped out of his skin. He spun around, his hand flying to his wand. His fingers wrapped around the wooden stick, just as Professor Riddle came out of the shadows. He was dressed in cream coloured robes, his long black hair flowing over his shoulders. He looked almost kind, almost like Dumbledore. NO! It was an insult to Dumbledore's memory to view this man as anything other than a murderer. No one could replace Dumbledore.

Riddle clapped his hands and the crystal in the snake's mouth became brighter, filling the office with a bright glow. Riddle walked slowly around his desk and sank into the seat. He lay back, interlocking his fingers, beneath his chin with his elbows resting on the arms of the chair.

"You look disapproving," noted Riddle, gesturing at the lamp.

"You're Slytherin's descendent," said Harry icily. "Snakes are your family heirloom, dark as they may be."

"You know about my heritage," said Riddle nodding slightly. He wasn't even going to deny it – he had to be dark. Harry had a sudden feeling that the whole school must be dark, if someone this evil could openly parade their darkness. "Impressive. Does your house rivalry extend to myself as well, now?" House rivalry? Harry was above that sort of thing. In his experience, Heirs of Slytherin cost lives, not points.

"I'm above such petty sentiments," said Harry frostily. "I just distrust anyone who likes snakes, because they are a symbol of Dark Wizards."

"You believe snakes are inherently evil," asked Riddle, raising an eyebrow as if it were a minor point to be debated.

"They have fangs, they bite, they kill," said Harry frostily. "That's all I need to know."

"By implication, you then hate everything from a spider to a cat then, Harry," said Riddle, "And cats have a much darker past then snakes. Snakes have just had their image spoiled by humanity. Every Dark Lord for the last nine hundred years has taken a snake to be its symbol, which is rather unfair to the snake. Snakes have long been associated with fertility, going right back to the ancients. Some believed they were the guardians of the underworld, and that is what is taught in schools, but for centuries the snake has been the symbol for fertility and the Mother Earth. They are handled in fertility rituals around the world today, in Aboriginal, native American, and African tribes. Their unblinking stare and habits suggest that the snake's mind follows logic rather than instinct. They work things out, Harry. Christian mythology tells how a snake tempted Eve, while Greek tells how Orphion the snake incubated the egg from which all life sprang. Buddhists believe that Brahma slept in the coils of Shesha, who protected him."

"Fascinating," said Harry sarcastically. He didn't need the history lesson and it was not interesting at all.

"But we have digressed too far," said Riddle, turning back to Harry. "There is still the matter of your return."

"And?" snapped Harry. Riddle interlocked his fingers beneath his chin and stared at Harry.

"I believe it was Sherlock Holmes who once said that if you eliminate the impossible, whatever is left, however improbable, is invariably true." He looked up, peering into Harry's defiant green eyes. Harry realised that his face had settled into a glare, but he wasn't going to change it. The seconds ticked by, neither man said anything.

"Is there more," sneered Harry. "Or am I supposed to guess." He was openly rude; he didn't care. Let Riddle shout. Harry could destroy his office just as well as he had Dumbledore's. His entire body was tensed and ready to move. He had a sudden urge to lash out at….something. _Control yourself. Harry._

"I see you before me now," said Riddle calmly. "Yet I have it good authority that this cannot be true. You see several weeks ago several witnesses claimed that they saw you die. You were laid to rest just before Christmas, with an empty casket I might add."

"How did I allegedly die?" asked Harry. He needed to gather as much information as possible. He would need it or he would be suspected. At least he now knew that he would not run into another version of himself here. However, it might raise problems if he ran into his parents, people who would know in a second that he was not their son. He supposed he could win them over in time, but how many 'other families' would be collect? Was there a version of Rose here?

"You have no memory of anything?" asked Riddle, surveying him cautiously . "You do not know what happened?"

"If I did, I wouldn't ask," said Harry.

"If you don't remember," said Riddle more to himself than Harry, "You won't know about…" He seemed to be staring down into his lap, or at something beneath the desk. Harry's hand tightened on his wand.

"About what?" He really hated it when people didn't give straight answers. Riddle looked a little awkward for a moment, before the calm returned. He sat back and fixed Harry with a cautious stare. Eventually he spoke.

"There was a fire," said Riddle. "In St Mungo's. The Long Term patients wing caught fire."

"And that's what killed me?" asked Harry. He had been expecting murder, for some reason. He was sure that he would have died by unnatural means. He almost felt disappointed.

"The fact that the Long Term Ward was destroyed doesn't trouble you?" asked Riddle, eyeing his cautiously.

"Of course it does," said Harry. "It was horrific, but I don't see the relevance to me."

"Harry are you feeling alright?"

"Yes, why?" What was he missing? What didn't he know.

"Harry, I'm sorry to tell you this, but your parents were caught in the fire," said Riddle. "They're dead."

"Dead?" echoed Harry. What were his parents doing there? Why were they on the lifer's wing? So they weren't killed when he was one, they were both in St Mungo's when it burned down. But what were they there for?

"Why were they there?" asked Harry.

Riddle fixed Harry with a piercing stare that even McGonagall would be proud of. Harry had no idea what was going on inside his head, but he was fairly sure the cogs were whirring. What was wrong? Harry tried to Occlude his mind, to make absolutely sure Riddle didn't gain any information that way.

"Harry, I think you need to see Madam Pomfrey," said Riddle cautiously.

"I'm fine," said Harry, quickly. He didn't want to give Madam Pomfrey a chance to inspect his various scars, and he certainly didn't want to spend a month in bed. He doubted she could get any hard evidence that he wasn't the Harry they knew, but he didn't want to take that chance.

"Harry, I can't help you if you don't let me," said Riddle gently.

"I don't want your help or need it. All I want is to get back to my life. I want to leave in peace, that's all." Harry thought it was best to set the ground rules as soon as possible. He just wanted to be left alone.

"That is easier said than done, I'm afraid," said Riddle sadly. "If you can't even remember what happened to your parents, then that suggests a serious mental trauma. We need to take care of your mind."

"I am not mad," said Harry. "My memory is just a little off. What happened to them?"

"After the Dark Lord fell," said Riddle. "They were cornered by Death Eaters. Extensive exposure…" Suddenly Harry understood.

"To the Cruciatus Curse," continued Harry, finishing for him. "Can result in madness. Their minds were fried by the Lestranges and Barty Crouch Junior?"

"You do remember," said Riddle, sounding partially relieved. Harry felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. This should have happened to Neville, not him. This whole world was back to front. He could imagine them mindlessly wandering around all day, unable to recognise anything. He cringed at the thought, remembering how Neville's parents had been last Christmas. Maybe it was better for them being dead.

"I just needed a nudge," said Harry. "I'm a bit confused."

"Do you know why that is?" asked Riddle.

"No," said Harry, sticking to single word lies, before the Legilimency master. He tried desperately to Occlude his mind.

"Look at this from an objective perspective," said Riddle, leaning forward. "You were seen to die, then you reappear with varying amounts of memory. These are not normal events, Harry, and I think it best you undergo a psychiatric evaluation."

"You can't lock me up in the loony-bin," said Harry, hotly. If he was to have any hope of figuring out a way home, he needed to be free. That and he could not allow himself to be examined in case anyone found out the truth and tried to use the Node.

"That's not what I am saying at all," said Riddle, softly. "I am merely asking you to report to Madam Pomfrey tomorrow at noon for her to check you over, is that too much to ask?"

"There's nothing wrong with me," protested Harry. "I just want to get on with life."

"I'm not asking you to commit to anything," said Riddle. "Should Madam Pomfrey report that you are, as you claim, fine, then that will be the end of it, but it's better to be safe than sorry. It's New Years Day tomorrow - I mean today," he added, checking his watch. "You have another five days before the students return for the term. Would you rather go through this now or then?"

Of course, everyone was away for the holidays. In Rose's world the students had been kept there over Christmas for fear of safety. It seemed here was a little more relaxed. But then again, why shouldn't it be. If Riddle was here and there was no Voldemort, then why should they not be care-free?

"Okay, I'll go and see her," said Harry, appeasing the headmaster – if he didn't go, Riddle would never be off his case. He would just have to be careful. One single check-up would do, but of course, it was never just one with Pomfrey. "But the old bat will recommend a week in bed; it's her cure for everything. I am not sitting in the Hospital for examination, understood?"

"We have a deal, Mr Potter," said Riddle, nodding and wearing a small smile, "and I will hold you to it."

"Whatever," said Harry, not caring. "But now, I'm off. I'm cold, tired, aching and I just want to go to sleep."

"Then who am I to stop you," smiled Riddle. "Your things are still at the castle, I had not yet got around to sending them on to your Aunt and Uncle in Surrey. They will be returned to your room by the time you get there. Good night, Harry."

"Whatever," said Harry rising awkwardly from his chair. He turned to the door, but had only gone two paces when Riddle stopped him.

"Oh, Harry," said Riddle, his voice more firm this time. "I must ask you to leave that impressive array of weapons here." He paused for a second, eyeing the headmaster. Harry had not unwrapped them, and the cloth was thick enough to stop him seeing through it. How the hell had he known what was inside? Then again, how many things did one wear across one's back in this fashion? At least he didn't ask to inspect the bag with the Node material in it – that would need a lot of explaining.

Harry was too tired to argue. He could always flame up here and retrieve the swords if the occasion called for it. He un-strapped the bundle that contained the two swords, body armour, and the stun baton, and leaned them against the wall. He stared at Riddle, half expecting him to demand his wand and everything else he had on his person.

"Thank you, Harry," said Riddle, to Harry's relief. "Now I have something for you." He reached into the drawer in his desk and drew out a long, thin box about a foot in length. It was made of polished wood, with a floral pattern embossed in gold. Riddle placed it on the desk and lifted the lid, before offering it to Harry. Inside was familiar looking wand.

"This was recovered from St Mungo's," said Riddle. "I believe it belongs to you."

Harry stared down at the wand; it was identical to the one now tucked inside his cloak. It was the very same, not just a brother, but a perfect twin. Two identical wands, both as powerful as the other, since both were made for him and him alone. Harry reached out a hand, and picked up the wand. It felt warm in his hands, and sparks of pure scarlet fizzled at the tip as he lifted it from the box.

"It must be glad to see you again," noted Riddle, eyeing Harry. Harry was fairly sure that Riddle was trying to work something out, though he wasn't sure what. "I assume the one on your hip is a replacement," continued the Headmaster. "But it can never replace the original. I suggest you only use your original wand. For now though, you must get to bed; the password is Pandora. This will avoid any problems from prefects." He handed Harry a note, explaining that he had come from a meeting with the headmaster.

Harry didn't move, as the single word echoed through his mind. _Pandora_ - a word that he had been called before. The Muggle Prime Minister had plucked the word from thin air and used it as a reference to him, and now Riddle had used it as a password. To the best of Harry's knowledge, Pandora, according to Greek Mythology was a woman to whom a box was given with instructions not to open it. She had, due to her fatal curiosity and had unleashed pain and suffering into the world. Harry was himself curious, and he seriously hoped that he had not brought any pain or suffering to this world with him. It seemed like such a coincidence that the word Pandora should accompany him. He shook the idea from him mind, not wanting to give anything away.

"What do I say to the others," asked Harry. "I assume there are other Gryffindors in the castle?"

"I find the truth often works best," said Riddle, rising from his desk. "And yes, there are several, more so than in recent years. In fact, I believe most of your old friends are here. Though you may wish to avoid the subject completely tonight. I will announce your return to those of us still in the castle tomorrow, and then the rest of the school upon their return. Good night, Harry."

XxXxX

Outside the door, Harry inspected the two wands. They appeared identical and felt the same in his hand. Harry held one in each and pressed the tips together. He could feel the power in them, both perfectly at place in his hands. As the tips touched it was as if a circuit was complete and that power could then flow. It was a strange feeling of power that passed through his arms. His curiosity led him to test his theory.

_Lumos!_

A thin beam of pure white light shot out the end of both of them, merging into a single ball of light on inch from the two tips. From there it shot across the corridor and into the other wall like a laser. The light coming from the wands was tremendous. What was normally a light akin to a torch was now akin to a lighthouse. Harry stopped the spell in shock. Between them the two wands were more powerful than anything he had seen. Two identical wands were more powerful than two separate ones. He had used two wands simultaneously before, but since they were different wands; his power had been divided. But now, with two identically wands, his power was not divided, but multiplied.

Harry yawned involuntary, despite his discovery. He needed some sleep; now he just had to face the Gryffindors, what few were left in the castle. He wondered how many and exactly who Riddle meant by 'your old friends'. If he walked through that door to find Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle as Gryffindors he would scream. Just how different was this world? Pocketing both the wands, he turned and started the hike.

The trek to the common room seemed to take longer than it ever had. His limbs ached with every step. After what seemed like ages he arrived at the Fat Lady. He gave the password and the painting swung aside. Harry clambered through into the common room, which wasn't as empty as he had hoped. As Harry stood in the doorway silence fell on the room. Every eye turned to face Harry. Games stopped, conversations were put on hold, as everyone stared at the boy who had come back from the dead.

He was a sight; dressed completely in black and sopping wet. His combats were muddy and covered in grass stains. There were bits of grass and leaves stuck to the material. He looked like he had just crawled out of the Forbidden Forest, which wasn't too far from the truth. He was secretly happy that Riddle had confiscated his weapons as they would have taken a lot of explaining, as if he didn't have enough on the plate already. The fire was roaring in the fireplace and on the chairs in front of it were two seventh-year girls, notes laid out in front of them. In the corner were a few familiar figures, including some of his dorm mates, playing chess or chatting. To his left were a gaggle of first and second years, presumably chatting about something inane.

"Harry?" asked a voice stepping forward. He turned to see who had spoken. Neville was staring at him as if she had seen a ghost. This wasn't the Neville Harry knew. He was glad his friend was alive in this world, but he had not expected to find him like this. His hair was shorter and the front spiked up with gel. His appearance exuberated confidence and if Harry had to guess he would say that Neville was a Quidditch player. His form was more muscular, his face less chubby, and his general hair, clothes and posture reminded Harry of some of the Quidditch players he had known.

"Hello, Neville," said Harry softly, not entirely sure what to say. "Y'alright?" It was pitiful, but all he could manage,

Neville's head sank into a slow nod, his face not changing from the curious, yet guarded expression. "We thought you were dead," he explained. "Riddle said that you had…you know…the fire." Just like the Grinch who stole Christmas, Harry thought up a lie, and he thought it up quick, though the Grinch hadn't Occluded his mind as Harry now did.

"Muggle Fire Brigade," said Harry, lying through his teeth. "The shop window was on fire as well so they were called. They pulled me out, barely alive. That's where I've been: just another John Doe in a Muggle hospital."

"Did they stick a needle in you?" asked a young student nervously. Harry cringed at the thought of needles and Muggle medicine, but knew better than to tell the truth. They had to believe he had been unable to return, and that no one had known who he was.

"Yes," he said, making his tone sound bitter. "Far too many of them; enough to bring me out of a coma." He watched with satisfaction as several faces cringed. Fantastic! They thought he had suffered with the doctors and was now back, meaning that the ice was hopefully broken. Now he could go to bed.

"So you're fine now?" asked Ron, rising from his seat. Harry stared at his best friend, who at present hardly knew him. He was just as tall as he had been, and wore the traditional Weasley Christmas jumper.

"As I'll ever be," said Harry, fighting back a yawn. He needed to get to bed, quickly. "I'm just tired - it was a long journey back."

"How'd you get here?" Oh Christ, they wanted detail. He had to be careful here, not to contradict himself or to say something false. Every lie he told then had to be true to maintain his cover as their Harry. He had to remember every lie he told, so if asked later, he didn't contradict himself. As he wasn't sure how this world worked or even how to find Hogwarts in his own world, Harry had to make up his story and quickly. God he hoped they bought the lie.

"I hitch-hiked up to the Lakes," said Harry, knowing the stations the Hogwarts Express passes through. "The last ones that we go through and the Muggles use are Windermere and Kendal. Form there it was a matter of buying a map, following the valleys and the lakes we pass and then hitchhiking a little further, across the border to Scotland and then walking through a forest I was fairly sure was the Forbidden Forest. I knew it was because I could feel the wards."

"That's a bloody long way to travel," said Ron. Was he sceptical, or just in awe. Harry wasn't sure, but he didn't push it. To his relief, after a second, Ron began to smile. "Good on you. I'd have had no idea what to do."

"Well," said Harry, trying to avoid the praise as he literally had not deserved it. "I didn't know where I was at times. I just felt the place calling to me. My mind is all screwed up from the coma. My memory is full of holes, at the moment." It was probably best to label himself insane as it would excuse his lack of knowledge as he found out what was happening in this world.

"Are you alright?" asked Ron.

"More or less," said Harry, shrugging. "I just need rest." With that he began to head up towards the Boy's dorms, moving past Ron to get there. As he passed the base of the stairs, Ron leaned in to whisper in his ear.

"Katie is going to need to talk to you." Katie? As in Katie Bell, the Chaser? Could Ron not see that he was not in the best state to talk about Quidditch. The captain could wait; he was knackered. Honestly, it was poor taste, talking about Quidditch as soon as she heard he was alive.

"Katie can wait until the morning, I'm tired and in case you haven't noticed I'm not quite my usual self at the moment." Harry continued up the stairs, leaving a speechless Ron behind him. Harry climbed the stairs and entered the sixth year boys room.

He didn't even bother getting changed; he just walked over to his bed, drew the curtains and lay down. It was a matter of seconds before he was asleep.

XxXxX

"You sent for me, Tom," said the stern looking woman sitting before the Headmaster's desk. She was dressed in a tartan dressing gown. Her hair was a mess, her eyelids drooped and it was perfectly clear that she had just been woken up.

"Indeed I did, Minerva," said the Headmaster addressing his deputy. "Can I offer you any tea or coffee, I believe it might help?" She could tell from his tone that whatever he was about to say was important. She needed to be awake for it, especially if it was about the Order.

"Thanks," said Professor McGonagall. She tied her hair back into its usual bun while the Headmaster poured her a cup from the bronze kettle that was sitting on his desk. She sipped it and instantly felt warmth spread through her. Her senses became sharper and she felt the fog of sleep leave her. Minerva knew that Tom had put something in her coffee. She would normally object to being duped, but having been up until three in the morning the previous night thanks to Peeves, and the night before thanks to an Order meeting, not to mentioned being awoken ten minutes ago by the call from Professor Riddle on the Frog Card, she was glad that something was taking the dreariness away. Feeling better and more attentive, Minerva crossed her legs in the chair, and stared expectantly at the Headmaster, who was stirring a slice of lemon in his tea, and staring absently at the desk. What had gotten him so rattled? It couldn't be good. Tom managed to appear calm even at the most trying times. Whatever was happening had shaken him, and that wasn't an easy thing to do.

"What is this all about, Tom?" she asked the Headmaster. She had known the man since they were at school. He was in his sixth year when she was in her first. He had been a Slytherin and she a Gryffindor. They had known each other for nearly half a century, and she had never seen him look so old and tired.

"Just when I thought that nothing else in the world could surprise me," said Riddle, sipping his tea. "It seems that nothing is beyond the power of fate."

"You're not making sense, Tom," said Minerva, almost impatiently. Riddle was a perfect name for him as he constantly spoke in riddles.

"There is no easy way to say this," he said, looking directly into her eyes for the first time in ages. "So I'm just going to say it. Harry Potter is alive."

Minerva coughed into her coffee. "He's what…?" she blurted out, unable to stop herself, and spraying coffee over the desk and her tartan dressing gown. That wasn't possible! As his head of house, she had escorted Harry to St Mungo's after the Healers summoned him. She had been there when he had died. She remembered it clearly.

XxXxX

"Now remember, Pot…Harry," Minerva said, softening her tone, as the boy brushed the soot off his cloak. He was dressed in jeans and a red jumper that was at least three sizes too big for him. The seam that should have sat on his shoulders was almost at his elbow. If her suspicions were correct, that was a second hand jumper, which puzzled Minerva as the boy stayed with his Aunt and Uncle in Surrey who were well off, according to Hogwarts records. The poor boy had no confidence, and it was unsurprising, given what had happened to his parents, but that was not it. He seemed to accept minimal things unlike most boys his age. For example, he rarely spoke in her classes, unless asked a direct question. When asked to collect equipment from the front, he would always wait until last, and Minerva knew that the bigger boys, Draco Malfoy for instance, would walk all over him. Poor boy. At least he had friends big enough to protect him. While he was not particularly close to people like Neville Longbottom, Ron Weasley, Seamus Finnigan, he was friends with them and they hung around together, though it was clearly Longbottom and Weasley who held rank in the group.

Harry stood upright, having finished brushing the cloak he wore over the top of his clothes. They stood in the main entrance to St Mungo's. To their right was the shop window, through which they could see Muggles passing by, covered in plastic coats, and cowering under umbrellas as the rain thundered down around them. To their left was the reception desk behind which an unconcerned witch was 'helping' - not that Minerva would call it helping - the people in the queue.

"It's this way," said Harry meekly, pointing to the doors in the back wall, to the left of the reception desk. "The letter said to go straight through."

The letter he referred to had arrived at during breakfast several hours earlier. It was the tenth of December, only a week before the end of term. A letter had arrived for Harry, which in itself was rare as his Muggle relatives never wrote to him, noted Minerva, wondering how she had never picked up on it before. She made a mental note to speak to him about his home life once they got back to Hogwarts. The letter had been from St Mungo's. It seemed there had been an accident.

Lily and James Potter had been here since 1980. It had been the night when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had fallen. While Minerva had been off with Tom delivering the child, and seeing to the future, not only of the child but of the country, Lily and James had been on duty, as one of the few husband-Wife Auror teams that worked. They had been set upon by Death Eaters; the Lestranges and Barty Crouch Junior. Since that day, their minds had been lost and their bodies drifted aimlessly around the Long Term ward of St Mungo's, neither awake not asleep, just empty shells of the people they had once been. Yesterday, according to the letter, another patient, incarcerated in St Mungo's after pleading insanity before the Wizengamot had become violent, throwing things around. Lily Potter had been hit in the head by something he had thrown. She was badly concussed and so the hospital had contacted the next of kin, Harry. He had been called for a visit, and Professor Riddle had permitted it.

Harry's head and shoulders slumped as he walked, staring at the floor in front of him. There was no pride in his movements. He seemed more mellow that ever. He had said three words since he had arrived in her office, ready to leave, and his voice had cracked on them. He was not a particularly bright boy or able, but he was kind with good intent. Minerva pitied him, but secretly wished he would get a grip, and concentrate. She had hoped that Longbottom would show him some guidance, but it seemed he had fallen into their wake, rather than walking proud, side by side.

Minerva followed him a pace behind the boy. She wasn't entirely sure what to say - what had happened to his parents was so horrific that there was nothing that could be said. 'It'll be alright', or 'things will get better' wouldn't work as there condition was irreversible. In short, the boy had nothing to hope for. They walked along the corridor, passed Healers dressed in green, and other inmates.

Up several flights of stairs and down another corridor, Harry led them into the Long Term Ward. He paused outside to take a deep breath before pushing open the double doors and walking in. Minerva followed a second later. The room was large and white with a line of beds down each side, some of them closed off by curtains. There were people in most of the beds, some asleep or vegetative – Minerva couldn't tell, and others were sitting up talking. Harry made for the curtained off area at the end on the right. He slipped through the curtains into the last two beds on the right hand side. Minerva following pushing the curtains aside and drawing them again behind her. She turned and saw for the first time in years what had happened to the Potters.

Lily was lying unconscious on the bed a large white patch on her forehead. She looked deathly pale and thin. Her skin was waxy and pale, having received no sunlight. Her once soft features were gone and her skin hung off her cheekbones, and the area around her eyes was dark and a little red, giving her a haunted face, which brought a tear to Minerva's eyes. James, the once caring husband was now beyond the capacity for rational thought, or indeed any form of thought. He was sitting on the next bed, a wide yet inane smile spread stupidly across his face. He seemed completely oblivious to anything that was happening around him. His son was present and his wife was fighting for her life, but he was completely incapable of caring or even understanding. His mind was effectively that of a baby, a blank slate, though where as with a baby they soak up what happens around them, which is why you should never swear in front of a child, James Potter's mind was incapable of holding anything he learned. He could never recover and every time Harry visited, he didn't even recognise him. Merlin, what would that do to the mind of a young boy? The results were there for all to see: a feeling of utter worthlessness. Minerva definitely had to talk to the boy. As Head of House how had she missed it all these years? Five he had spent at Hogwarts. She had known what had happened, but had never investigated, presuming him to be a naturally quiet and not a powerful boy. She had been concentrating so hard on helping another student, she had missed the one who really needed help. Merlin, she had been so wrong, but right here, right now, it hit her.

"Dad?" said Harry, his voice soft and lined with tears building in his eyes.

"Mr Potter?" Minerva turned with Harry to see a Healer enter the curtains, dressed in green.

"My name is Healer Rushdale," he said, shaking Harry's hand. "Rest assured, Mr Potter, your parents are getting the best care."

"Still hopeless, isn't it," muttered Harry. The doctor didn't reply for a second, and when he did, it was on a different subject. He guided Harry over to his mother's bed and began to explain yesterday's events.

"I'll wait outside, Harry," said Minerva, giving his shoulder a gently squeeze for support. She let herself out of the curtain and crossed to the main door, and stepped out into the corridor. She sighed deeply, having finally seen Lily and James. They had been in the Order first time around. Good people who hadn't deserved what had happened to them. Looking across the corridor, she saw a sign depicting a knife and fork. Minerva needed a shot of caffeine. She turned to her right and headed off down the corridor.

It was horrific what had been done to the Potters. Good thing that the three culprits had gone to rot in Azkaban. Of course, two had escaped this year. That wasn't justice.

"Excuse me, Miss," said a man to Minerva's right. Minerva stopped to face him. He wore long back robes, with a cloak and hood that covered his face. Long rough tassels of black hair escaped the hood. In the light she could see his face, his dark eyes, and hooked nose, and steely gaze. "Where might I find the Long Term Ward?"

"It's just down there, the last door on the left," she said to the man, pointing down the corridor.

"Thanks," he said, bowing slightly.

Minerva nodded before resuming her dark thoughts.

Poor Harry: she had utterly failed him as head of house. It was her job to see the care of her pupils, and she had massively misinterpreted the signs, keeping all her senses honed on another Gryffindor, who she had thought mattered more. How dare she? They were all people and all of them mattered, yet she had neglected Harry. She reached the café after about one hundred metres. She asked for two cups of tea from the young lady behind the counter. As the young witch summoned what was needed from the shelves, Minerva turned her thoughts back to the Order. James and Lily were good Aurors and good people. What kind of person could do this to them? It was monstrous.

"Anything else?" asked the witch.

Feeling generous, or more specifically, guilty, Minerva added a slide of Black Forest Gateau for Harry and paid the witch. Turning around she headed back to the ward, carrying two paper cups of tea in her right hand and a plate of gateau in her left. It was the least she could do for the poor boy. She hadn't gone far when the doors to the ward opened and the man in the black hood came out of the ward, and headed swiftly down the passage towards her.

_That was a quick visit,_ noted Minerva. The man walked swiftly towards her, causing Minerva to sidestep as he passed without even acknowledging her. As Minerva sidestepped she nearly lost her grip on the plate she carried. How rude. He hadn't even said 'excuse me'. Merlin, manners cost so little. She had also spilt a little of the tea on her robes, which she would have to clean once she had a free hand. Grumbling silently to herself, she carried on towards the ward.

She was only ten feet away when the doors exploded.

_BOOM!_

A jet of fire blasted both the double doors off their hinges onto the far wall, unleashing a fireball into the passage. The floors and walls shook under the force of the explosion. Minerva was launched off her feet by the force of the explosion, the cups and the cake flying through the air. She landed hard on her back, and slid along the polished floor. The lights above her, the glowing crystals shattered, plunging the corridor into darkness. The passage was suddenly full of smoke. There was the orange glow of flames coming from inside the ward, and a river of black smoke was running along the ceiling.

_Sweet Merlin!_ Harry was in there! Covering her mouth with her sleeve to protect her lungs, Minerva surged forward towards the ward. As she peered in, she saw everything was covered in flames. The air was thick with smoke, which made it hard to see. She cast the Bubble-Head charm on herself to help her breathing and then lit her wand light and held it up.

"HARRY!" she shouted into the flames. "HARRY! Where are you?"

Looking around she could see no way through the flames. The heat was incredible – it hurt her to even stand in the doorway. Oh Merlin! There was movement through the flames. Minerva watched in horror as a figure staggered through the flames. The figure was flapping its arms in a futile effort to put out the flames. The robes or cloak of the figure were engulfed in flames. The figure staggered towards Minerva through the flames, but never made it. The man crashed to the floor just in front of her.

"_Aquamenti!"_ A jet of water shot out of Minerva's wand onto the burning body, now lying still. Minerva doused the fallen body with water, putting out the flames. Was this Harry? Was this person dead? Using her foot, and fearing what she would find, Minerva rolled the body over. She found herself staring into the lifeless hazel eyes of James Potter. His skin was burned black and his hair had completely gone. The whites of his eyes stared unseeingly up at Minerva, while his clothes, now fused into his skin wrapped him like a mummy, and smoked in the darkness.

"AHH!" the heat on her skin was unbearable. The whole room was on fire and she could feel her blood boiling. The lifeless body was smoking beneath her. Harry? Where was Harry? Minerva covered her mouth in an effort not to be sick as the fumes from the body, the smell of burned flesh and hair wafted up her nostrils, causing her to gag.

"YOU! HANDS UP!" shouted a voice behind her.

Minerva turned to see a man in black with Security written over his chest aiming a wand at her.

"Don't try and arrest me, you stupid little man," seethed Minerva, unable to control her anger. Even her icy precision and control failed at this moment. "Get some Aurors and Healers up here and put out these bloody fires!" The wizard hesitated for a few seconds before darting out the door. Minerva, shone her light around the room again, but there was no sign of movement.

"HARRY!" she shouted into the gloom. There was no reply.

All of the Potters were dead.

XxXxX

"You mustn't blame yourself, Minerva," said Tom softly from behind his desk. He always seemed to be able to read her like a book, not that her feelings were well disguised at this point.

"But Tom, he can't be. I was there, I saw…"

"You did Minerva," said Tom, rubbing his eyes. "I know Harry Potter is dead, and I accept that. I'm almost as the point where I want to exhume the body to make sure. However, ninety minutes ago there was a knock on the door and Horace announced that a student wished to see me. The next thing I know Harry Potter steps into the office as close to me as you are now."

"But it couldn't be him," said Minerva. "We know he's dead."

"Exactly what I thought," said Tom, He opened one of his desk drawers and pulled out a piece of parchment. He laid it on the table and tapped it with his wand. "I solemnly swear I am up to no good." To Minerva's astonishment, lines began to appear on the parchment, snaking out in all directions. Before Minerva's eyes, she began to make sense of what she was seeing.

"It's a map," she gasped.

"Something I confiscated from a young James Potter back in his day," said Tom, with a smile. "A magnificent piece of magic, one that has come in most useful, I must admit." He smiled to himself again. Minerva was shocked that someone so young had managed to make such a complicated map.

"As you can see," said Tom. "It shows where everyone is and as far as I can tell, it is never wrong. It isn't fooled by Polyjuice Potion or disguises. As soon as he walked through the door, I checked the map, which by good fortune, happened to be open in the draw, as I had been keeping an eye on certain students. The boy who stood before me was Harry Potter. I have checked the fingerprints on the cup he used when I offered him tea. I returned his wand to him, and the wand knew it was him. Minerva, that is Harry Potter."

"But how is he alive?" Minerva herself had accompanied Tom to identify the body. Harry Potter had died; she had seen it all. St Mungo's Long Term Ward had been burned to a crisp, all three Potters inside. Whoever this boy was, he was not Harry. "He's not an Inferus is he?"

Tom shot her a look that clearly said, "Please, I'm not that stupid".

"Okay, okay," said Minerva, blushing slightly – it was a stupid comment. "So how did he survive?"

"I could not get that far," said Tom, clearly troubled by something. Luckily Minerva didn't have to prompt him to find out what it was. "Minerva, I am going to be perfectly honest with you. I am more worried than relieved by Harry's arrival here tonight."

"Worried, why?" asked Minerva. "Surely we should be glad he was okay."

"You see the roll of fabric on the side behind you?" said Tom, watching her carefully and pointing to a roll of fabric about a metre high propped up against the cabinet behind her. "Have a look what's inside." Minerva picked up the roll, from where it lay. It was heavier than she had anticipated. He pulled it up onto her lap and began to unroll it. She was ever more aware of Tom watching her every move. As she unravelled the cloth, a gleam of silver shot up into her eyes. She found herself staring down at the jewel-encrusted sword of Godric Gryffindor. Its blade was flawless silver, and the gems laid into the handle gleamed in the light. The name of its owner was carved down one side of it. But that was not all the fabric contained. There was another sword, a Japanese katana, secured inside a black scabbard, with gold at the tip. There were an armoured vest made from what she was sure were dragon scales. Lastly there was a shorter stick. The handle looked like that of the katana, but instead of a blade was a cloudy coloured tube made of some form of glass by the look of it. Two swords and what looked like a glow-stick that people had at parties.

"Tom, what are…?" she began.

"Harry had those when he arrived," said Tom. _What the Hell was Harry Potter off all people doing with these weapons?_ What was he doing walking around? "I'm sure you recognise the silver one?" prompted Tom.

"It was brought back from the Chamber of Secrets," said Minerva. "It's Gryffindor's Sword."

"Indeed," said Tom, pointing to a glass cabinet on the wall. "And what was recovered from the Chamber is still here." Minerva followed his gaze up to the wall. Behind a layer of glass in one cabinet was a silver sword encrusted with jewels. It was identical to the one in her hands.

"It's a fake then?" suggested Minerva, lifting the one in her lap free from the cloth.

"If it is," said Tom, "Which I doubt, it's the best copy I've ever seen, and I would be very curious to know how it was copied when it was buried with its owner until it was pulled from the Sorting Hat. It has not left the office since, so how anyone had the opportunity to study it well enough to copy is beyond me.

"How can that be?" asked Minerva.

"I cannot say," said Tom. "Every theory has a glaring contradiction. All I can tell you is what I have seen so far. He came to me armed. He was in hysterics; he was irrational. He started shouting about Albus Dumbledore, who's been dead for fifty years. He accused me of being the Dark Lord and then bolted out of the door. He returned half an hour later, calmer, but clearly distressed."

"Is he insane?" asked Minerva.

"I have no idea," said Tom. "It would explain a lot, but I saw calculation and logic in his eyes. He was clearly thinking rationally. I have sent him to bed to get some rest. But I will tell you one thing about his mental state, Minerva. I tried to Legilimise him gently as he sat there. Someone has taught him to Occlude his mind, and they've done a thorough job. He blocked me, and that's not something a sixteen year old should be able to do. I could have pushed harder, but he would have known I was trying it, and he is unstable enough as it is."

"Do you think he's a danger to other students?" asked Minerva, thinking that Tom was mad for putting a potential time bomb in the Tower with other students. How would she extract him without setting him off?

"Students?" echoed Tom. "I wouldn't have thought so. His anger seemed directed at me, no one else. I think if he bears anyone ill will, it is myself. I saw loathing in his eyes, and his voice, was controlled, but lined with anger."

"What do you plan to do?" asked Minerva.

"For now, nothing," said Tom, to her surprise. "But I want you to keep an eye on the boy, Minerva. He is in your house. I want him monitored around the clock, but not touched or segregated. There's something about this boy that worries me."

"It will be done," said Minerva, rising to leave.

XxXxX

News travels fast in schools and Hogwarts was no different. Having lived here, or at least in one version of Hogwarts or another, for a good portion of his life, Harry was well aware of this. It was with a sense of dread that he woke up the following morning. It was midwinter so it was still dark at half past seven when the sounds of an early riser penetrated the curtains around Harry's bed and rousted him from his slumber. His dreams had been of death, destruction and violence, and waking up warm and snug in the familiar surroundings of a Hogwarts bed, Harry, for one glorious second, believed he was home. For a few blissful seconds, he genuinely thought it had been a dream, that the four months he had spent as a Stranger in an Unholy Land had been nothing but a horrific dream, and he was now home.

Then, a second later, reality hit home. He remembered coming back to Hogwarts the previous night, and all that he had learned. Harry sat bolt upright in the bed, as the images flowed back into his mind. Tom Riddle was Headmaster here, but for some inexplicable reason, he was not the evil son of a bitch that Harry knew. But he was the same person. This had to be a trick of some sort – Tom Riddle was a monster, plain and simple.

He had to get out of here. Harry couldn't deal with all this. Sliding out of his bed, he was relieved to see that the others still had their curtains drawn, except for one, and the bathroom door was shut, meaning that he was alone. On the floor next to his bed was a large trunk with the initials HP on it. Harry had never seen the trunk before, but assumed it was his. Riddle had said last night that the other Harry was dead. In a morbid sort of way, that was fortunate, as he didn't have to explain why there were two of them. However, it also might raise the possibility of family, and he should be guarded about that. Not having switched bodies, he had no residual memories to guide him into this world. Any sort of family would know in a second he was not their Harry. Still, there was no use sitting here worrying –he needed to have some time to himself to think things over.

Flipping open the trunk, he pulled out a pair of tracksuit bottoms and trainers and pulled them on, along with a white t-shirt. They were huge and baggy over his chest, and Harry had a feeling that they had once belonged to Dudley Dursley. This was confirmed by the DD scrawled in black marker on the label of the t-shirt. Harry stared at himself in the mirror, dressed in dark blue trackies and a white t-shirt. He looked far from the Dark Knight he had once been. But of course he wasn't the Dark Knight here, or even the Boy-Who-Lived by the sound of it. Riddle had not spoken to him like anyone special, and he had been dead. Therefore, it was safe to assume that here, he was no one. Also if Riddle was the Head, there couldn't be a Dark Lord, so it should be safe. To be safe though, it was probably best to hide his scar.

Harry pulled a handkerchief out of the trunk and with a little magic, transfigured into a black strip of fabric, which he then tied around his head, like a Thai Kick boxer, completely covering his scar. There was no point in advertising who or what he was. He slipped his false glasses back onto his nose, and checked himself in the mirror. Satisfied, Harry turned his attention to his clothes. Using his wand he shrank them slightly so they didn't hang off him quite so badly. That done, Harry slipped out of the room, through the disserted common room and out into the corridor.

There had been between eighteen and twenty Gryffindors in the common room last night, so if that was about average, then that meant there were eighty students and if he included staff, just under one hundred people in the school, none of whom Harry wished to speak to at the moment. He walked in a daze to the entrance hall, replaying the conversation of last night over in his head, trying to sort out exactly what he had been told, seeing if there were any small scraps of information he had not picked up on first time around.

As he reached the Entrance Hall, Harry stepped out into the courtyard. The sun was just rising above the mountains. The air was crisp and cold, but the sky was clear. The morning light was just enough to light up the valley. Harry didn't really know what he was doing, or where he was going, but he set off at a slow jog across the courtyard. He had never really been running before, but he needed to get away from the castle, to at least tide things over in his head. He was out of his depth here, and this time he didn't have Flamel or Dumbledore to turn to. Dumbledore was allegedly dead; probably murderer in his sleep by Riddle, and Flamel was God knows where. He was on his own here, as there was no way he could turn to Riddle for help.

Harry reached the outer walls of the courtyard and passed through the gates out into the valley. A path stretched upward along the side of a mountain, above the canopy of the forest, overlooking the lake. It didn't go up to the peaks, but instead went straight along the edge of the mountains, along the side of the lake, but about one hundred and fifty feet above it. The track was uneven, and the morning cold, but Harry's pace soon warmed him up. The cool air filled his lungs as he jogged up the hill. He was not running particularly quickly; aiming at neither distance, speed nor power, just simply as a means to get some time to think about his situation.

He could not go back to the Unholy Land as, for some reason, the key did not fit the Node. Why was that? The device looked identical and there was nothing in the hole. Was he expected to chip away at it to make it bigger? No, that would break it and then he really would be screwed. He wasn't stupid enough to start hitting a powerful magical object with a hammer and chisel – that was a recipe for disaster. He had to find out why it was not working, but of course there were no user-manuals for something like that. He had Flamel's translation of the book in which he had found the Node, lodged in his trunk in the Tower. But if Flamel couldn't answer the question, there was little chance Harry could alone. Maybe he would ask Hermione to go over the Arithmancy of it, if Hermione was even alive here, he noted. _How had things gone wrong in the first place? _he wondered. Dumbledore and Flamel, two of the brightest minds in history could not both be wrong. They had even had Vector check it, as far as Harry knew. How on Earth had they cocked-up?

But there were no use worrying about that now. He was here and he couldn't go back. Once again he was faced with the choice. Dig in here and make a life or fight for a chance to go home. It wasn't a hard choice. Riddle was headmaster, Dumbledore was dead and the world was screwed up. No, he would fight; he would find a way home, or a way back to his mother. He didn't care which, as long as it was not here. _Why did I even leave,_ asked Harry cursing himself. _If it ain't broke don't fix it._ Why hadn't he left well enough alone and stayed where he knew it was safe?

So he would fight to get back. Now how could he do that? When he got back he would read through Flamel's notes (after a shower). If there was nothing to be gained from them, what then? How could be get home?

_Come on, Harry_, he thought to himself as he continued along the path. The cold air was stinging his lungs, and his muscles protested, unused to the effort of jogging. Some people found this therapeutic. Ha! Not likely! His legs ached, he was out of breath and his heart was pounding. His mother's words came back to him, _there's no need to run anymore_.

They had been said in a completely different context, but it didn't matter. He couldn't have run much further if he had to. He had gone about a mile, and he was out of breath. He hadn't noticed, but as his thought became more determined, his pace had increased, until he was full out running. Coming to a halt, Harry put his hand on his hips and took a deep breath, forcing air into his lungs.

Below him to his right was the canopy of the forest, which stretched for maybe fifty or sixty metres before opening up into the lake. A tree next to the path had fallen recently and the canopy had caught it, holding it in place. The log was about a metre thick and stretched out over the canopy like a bridge. Harry stepped up onto it, still panting and walked along a few paces. He sat down, his legs dangling off the edge, and nothing beneath him but the treetops.

Letting his legs dangle, he sat still, trying to catch his breath.

_Come on, Harry,_ he thought to himself. Let's think about this logically. _The last time you were in this situation you came to the conclusion that it was all one giant prank, and somehow Voldemort was controlling the entire population. Let's see if you could do better this time. Why does a key not fit a lock? Because it's locked? No, a key would unlock it. It usually doesn't fit because you've got a wrong key. That's it!_ The key back home was the key for that world, but not for this one. If the device was made in this world and then so would it's key. Flamel had said that they had gone exploring and others had come back through the Node. It worked two ways, because the others had had a Node. Therefore somewhere in this world, probably in Greece, there was another key, one that would make the device work. It was so simple. He needed to find a key, wherever it was.

Ah, but then there was the code, the runes. If the 'address' to get home was wrong, chances are that the other Flamel equation, the one to return to the Unholy Land, would also be wrong and he could end up just about anywhere. He would need to start again, with Flamel's initial digits he gained directly from his blood and spells and do the whole equation again. Harry bowed his head. He didn't even do Arithmancy, and Hermione's homework had always looked very difficult. He would need to recruit Hermione at some point.

_Right, so that's it then,_ thought Harry. _Number one: find the key, the clues must be in the book because Flamel found it. Number two: get Hermione to redo the equations._ He would not involve Riddle or even Ron and his friends. Last time he had become attached he had allow himself to be sidetracked. He didn't regret that now, but he couldn't afford to become attached here, and he knew that he had to stay as low-key as possible. He was not a soldier here, or a Dark Lord. It was not his world; it was not his fight. This time there was no need to get involved. He would remain distant, he would find what he needed and he would leave, plain and simple. There was no family to keep him here, no war to fight, and no reason to stay. He just had to pass the time.

Harry got to his feet on the log a cheeky grin on his face. He had done it. It was simple: he had two jobs to do and then he could go home. It shouldn't take too long. Once he had the key he could go and see Hermione and ask for her help, force her, if needs be, and then he'd be gone like phantom. This world would go on. Harry Potter had died here, this was how it was supposed to be.

Harry jumped back onto the path and set off at a leisurely pace. He felt oddly relieved. It was so simple. He would need what? A month at most before he could get back home? He reckoned if he pushed himself hard he might he able to be gone in a fortnight. If he got it working, would he go back to Rose or home? He hadn't thought that part out yet, but that was far down the pipeline. He would jump that hurdle as he got to it. He jogged faster down the hill, heading back towards the gate.

He could imagine Dumbledore's face as Harry reappeared at Hogwarts. That was what should have happened last night, but it had all gone wrong and now he would have to wait even longer. Fate had a shite sense of humour. _Divine Comedy,_ Harry scoffed, when was he going to get a break?

Harry stopped at the gates, and tried to catch his breath. He wiped his forehead on his t-shirt and tried to catch his breath. His muscles ached after a relatively short exercise, but he felt oddly relieved, and much happier than he had been when he had set off. Breathing heavily, Harry slipped back into the courtyard and headed across towards the main doors. He stared at his feet, his mind wandering back home to what his friends might be doing as he walked, his feet carrying him automatically.

He got to the bottom of five steps that led up to the door. As he stepped onto the first one, another person arrived at the top. Harry struggled not to roll his eyes as the Slytherin adopted the usual arrogant stance that pronounced that a snide comment was on the way. True to form Crabbe and Goyle were right behind him, the first one standing behind his master, the other leaning against the door, rubbing his knuckles.

"You can train for ever-and-a-day," said Malfoy, his tone condescending. "But you're still nothing but a useless lardbucket."

"Yeah, well not all of us get Liposuction and manicures for our birthday" said Harry, wiping his brow on his forearm. Malfoy's eyes grew wide for a second, before he regained composure. Harry was surprised to see he reaction. What was he so shocked about?

"What did you say?" hissed Malfoy, his eyebrows narrowing. He took a step forward down the steps towards Harry, his chest puffed out threateningly.

"Look, Malfoy," said Harry, his tone bored. "I'm sweaty, I'm stinking, and I just want to go for a shower. I am _really_ not in the mood for this, right now. Please ask Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee to get out of my way." Harry sidestepped Malfoy and walked up towards the door, which was blocked by Crabbe and Goyle. "Today would be nice," he added.

"What's with you today," sneered Malfoy. "Did you grow some balls since your return?"

"What?" asked Harry. What was wrong in Malfoy's eyes? He was completely lost. What was Malfoy on about?

"So where have you been for the last few weeks?" asked Malfoy. "Not that you were missed. Rumour has it you died, though you're so stupid, you probably couldn't even die properly."

"BACK OFF, MALFOY!" called a voice. That voice was oddly familiar. A girl's voice, echoed out from the Entrance Hall. Harry turned around to see the new arrivals. Neville Longbottom, at least Harry was fairly sure it was him though he looked so different, stood on the right, but it was the girl in the middle that caused Harry to lose his voice. It was Katie Bell, though not the Katie he knew.

"What the…" was all Harry could say. The Katie of this world was somewhat different from his world and the other one. She had a fire in her eyes that his Katie lacked. There was pain there, a pain Harry knew all to well. She was dressed all in black and her hair was tied back in ponytail rather than flowing in the wind, perfectly kept and straightened. She had a much stronger presence to her, and more powerful persona, but that was not the most shocking thing about her.

In the middle of her forehead was a thin lightening-bolt shaped scar.

"Well, look who it is," sneered Malfoy. "The _Slut_-Who-Lived."


	2. Retracing Steps Never Taken

_This chapter contains text taken directly from Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince by J. K. Rowling. The quote is properly cited and no copyright infringement is intended. _

Harry spends his first week in the Promised Land. Not being the chosen one means he doesn't need to fight, so Harry spends his time trying to find out just what is happening in the world and a way to get out of it. Things are never that easy though. Harry must hide his scar, hide his abilities and hide the truth, but he is already arousing suspicion. The Headmaster, the Girl-Who-Lived and the Slytherin are all asking one question: what has happened to Harry Potter? Sooner or later, Harry is going to slip and the truth shall be known. How long can he hide?

_**A Stranger in the Promised Land **_

** Chapter II **

**Retracing Steps Never Taken**

"_I remember that I am here  
Not because of the path that lies before me  
But because of the path that lies behind me."_

_Morpheus (Laurence Fishbourne) – The Matrix: Reloaded_

"Did he say an…y…thing?" Katie asked Ron the next morning, an involuntary yawn breaking up the last word. She had not had much sleep last night.

Shaking the tiredness from her mind, Katie repeated the question. The two of them were sitting with Hermione and Neville by the fireplace in the common room, waiting for Ginny to join them so they could all go to breakfast together. The topic of conversation, naturally, was Harry Potter. Word of his reappearance the previous evening had spread like lightning, and although Katie had been up in her room at the time, it hadn't taken her long to find out.

It had been the beginning of December when Professor Riddle had announced to the whole school that Harry Potter had been killed in a fire at St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. He had been visiting his parents at the time, when a fire had started in the Long Term Ward. By all accounts, Harry had been trapped. The whole Potter family had been wiped out and no one even knew what caused the fire.

_Poor Harry_. Katie had found out last year why Harry's parents had been in the Long Term Ward. In the confusion after the Dark Lord had fallen, the Lestranges and Barty Crouch Junior had captured the Potters, believing them to know what had happened to the Dark Lord. They had tortured the Potters for hours until their brains had turned to mush. Following the fire in St Mungo's, their names had been engraved on a golden plaque in the newly refurbished Long Term Ward - a tiny token to the memories of two fallen heroes.

Katie couldn't imagine what it must have been like for Harry to visit his own parents and not have them recognise him, to be completely unable to communicate with them. He must have felt so alone. With them in hospital, he had gone to live with his aunt and uncle, who, by all accounts, were very anti-magic. It was no wonder that the boy had no confidence. Luckily Neville and Ron, whom he had met on the train to Hogwarts, had taken him under their wings, and they in turn had befriended Katie, a second year at the time.

Katie's dorm mates were somewhat…dull, to put it mildly. They had never really been her friends, and as such she had had a rather miserable first year. After five years of living with them, she knew what they were all about: men, makeup, and marriage plans. Not that Katie was by any means a tomboy; she just 'had a level head', as Neville phrased it. She wasn't an 'airhead', or a 'plank' which Neville also used frequently, and she did not consider herself 'bubbly' which was also a good thing, because according to the boys, bubbly translated into guy-talk as 'loud and annoying'. As such, Katie had become closer to a group of first years than she had people her own age. But poor Harry had always been a little on the edge of the group, a bit left out, though he had stood by her - until his death of course.

But then he had reappeared last night with apparently no explanation. He had died – McGonagall had been there. And yet here he was, alive and apparently unharmed. According to Ron, his mind was somewhat messed up, or to use Ron's words, his 'cheese had slid off his cracker'. What kind of state would the poor boy be in now?

Katie had long tried to protect him, taking pity on him. He was friends with her circle of friends and so they had looked out for him, though there had been a line. There were many secrets that they had not shared with Harry. The boy's clumsiness and inability to stand up to people made him hard to trust with secrets. As such, he had never been in the inner-circle.

Harry had also fallen afoul of old Slughorn. The Potions Master was the kind of person who, if you were rich, famous, or influential, wanted you in his class. If not, you were a nobody. He was Head of Slytherin House, though surprisingly, he was not against Muggleborns attending Hogwarts, nor a genuinely bad man. However, favouritism was the most prominent of his character flaws. Poor Harry had always failed to match up to Slugger's expectations. Slughorn was always quite condescending towards Harry in lessons, according to Ron and Hermione. He had once invited Harry to join the 'Slug-Club' as it was affectionately referred to, due to the fact that his mother and father had been powerful in their day, but sadly Harry had inherited none of it. As such, he had been cast out, or more specifically, his invite to following meetings must have mysteriously gotten lost in the mail.

Now the poor boy was back, and if his mind was on the fritz, he would now need more help than ever, especially given the current environment in the school.

Katie had not seen him herself, but according to the others, he had come in through the portrait hole last night, dressed all in black, and covered in mud, grass, leaves, and all sorts. He had seemed distant as he mumbled some story about Muggle hospitals and then disappeared up the stairs, refusing to speak to anyone. According to Ron, his bed was now empty, so he must already be up and about. She had to find him, had to talk to the poor boy before someone else found him.

"...hardly a word," Ron was saying to Hermione. "He practically ignored us. I tell you, there was something in those eyes of his. He is one messed up boy." Were it not for her basic knowledge of Occlumency, she would not have believed anything could be told by looking into a person's eyes. Having said that, she hardly thought Ron was an expert on the matters of the mind.

"Where is he now?" asked Katie, perching on the arm of Hermione's chair.

"No idea," said Hermione, shrugging.

"He's not upstairs," said Ron unhelpfully. "His trunk is open, so I guess he got changed and went out. I didn't hear the shower going, so…"

"You could sleep through Goyle's trombone practice," said Ginny, arriving in the common room from the dorms, her hair still wet from the shower. Goyle had been asked in a lesson the previous week to transfigure a brick into a musical instrument. He had finally managed it but then McGonagall had asked him to try and play it. The sound had not been tuneful.

"Good point," added Neville, earning a playful smack from Ron. "Do you reckon Goyle does requests?"

"So none of you have seen him?" asked Katie, interrupting the conversation. Her patience was wearing thin. Her lack of sleep had made her ratty.

"Nope," said Ron. "Probably gone to brekky."

"Are you looking for Harry Potter?" asked a voice, causing them all to look up. A young girl had come back in from outside.

"Have you seen him?" asked Katie.

"Yeah," said the first year. "He was heading down through the Entrance Hall when I passed him, though he didn't see me. Looked like was going running."

"Running?" echoed Neville, chuckling slightly. "Are you sure?" he asked, grinning.

The girl nodded. "Positive."

"The guy doesn't do exercise," said Neville, turning back to Katie. "Even Quidditch is beyond him - what the hell is he doing running?"

"No idea," said Hermione, shaking her head. "But to be fair, from what I saw last night, I'd say running was not out of the question." She exchanged a cheeky wink with Ginny, who nodded.

"I'll see if I can find him," said Katie, rising from her chair. "See you later. We're still on for tonight, don't forget."

"I'll come with you," said Neville, also standing.

"Okay," said Katie, waiting for him. Neither of them were wearing their uniforms. Both wore jeans, and Katie had a green woolly jumper over the top of her t-shirt, while Neville wore a black fleece and woolly hat. They left the common room and headed down towards the Entrance Hall where Harry had last been seen. She kept her eyes peeled on the way down for any sign of Harry.

She walked swiftly down the stairs and out into the Entrance Hall. Both she and Neville paused as they arrived. They were too late. Harry stood just outside the main doors, his path blocked by Malfoy and his two gormless apes. He wore oversized tracksuit bottoms, a white polo shirt, trainers and a bandana around his forehead so that he looked like a cross between Rambo and Ali G.

Katie sighed in frustration, before raising her voice. "BACK OFF MALFOY!"

XxXxX

"Well look who it is," sneered Malfoy. "The _Slut_-Who-Lived."

The look plastered on his face was the same one Harry had seen directed at him time after time. He must really hate Katie in this world. Harry turned to face the girl as she approached. She marched with a more aggressive, confident stride than he had seen her. Her blonde hair was tied up in a ponytail and her brilliant blue eyes seemed to twinkle in the morning light as she walked. Harry's heart nearly missed a beat as he noticed the thin lightening-bolt-shaped scar on her forehead. Slut-Who-Lived?

_You've got to be kidding_, thought Harry.

Was it possible that in this world, he wasn't the Boy Who Lived? Was it possible that here, it was not _his_ fate to suffer?

_BRILLIANT! _

He didn't have Voldemort, or whatever Dark Lord Riddle was on about, trying to kill him. He could do his research and find the key in peace. He didn't have to worry about fighting wars, being killed and all that hassle. His happiness must have shown.

"Wipe that stupid grin off your face, Potter," snapped Malfoy.

"Wipe the mascara off yours," snapped Harry, continuing to grin. His grin widened as Malfoy's eyebrows shot up at Harry's retort. Surprise was etched into his face. He clearly hadn't been expecting Harry to respond. This only improved his mood.

_I don't have to fight!_ The thought repeated over and over in his mind. No more curses, explosions, blades, Dark Lords, masks, blood, sweat, tears, screams, or anything else that he had suffered these past few months. He was free. He could be out of here sooner than he thought if he didn't have to worry about being killed at every turn. It was Katie's problem now – let her deal with it. He felt like a quick victory dance, but this was hardly the time.

"Since when have you been the gobby type?" sneered Malfoy, recovering his composure.

"I…" began Harry. He stopped short when it occurred to him that he didn't know his own past here. This time he had travelled 'the conventional way', as Flamel had phrased it. He had not possessed someone else. He had retained his strong body, and both Harrys' skills and instincts. He was the same person physically and mentally as he had been in Rose's world, right down to his phoenix Animagus form. He made a mental note to do a few transformations that evening to avoid the aches returning. That still left him with the problem of not knowing his past in this world. If he wasn't the Boy-Who-Lived, and Katie was, then who was he? Did Malfoy expect him to be weak and pathetic? If so, it was better to appear that way than to arouse suspicion.

"You're what?" asked Malfoy, in a baby voice similar to the one so frequently used by his demented aunt. "Is ickle baby Potter gowing to cwy?"

"Shut up Malfoy!" snapped Katie.

"I wasn't talking to you, you filthy whore," snapped Malfoy, pulling his wand free from his robes. As the wand came level, Harry caught Malfoy's arm on pure instinct. His hand clamped over the Slytherin's wrist and held him firmly in place. Harry had been reluctant to get involved, but his instinct had overruled his conscious mind and acted to protect an innocent. As a result, he now held the Slytherin's wrist. He was committed to this confrontation now; people had seen that he was not a welp. There was no point pulling out - he might as well give Malfoy a warning.

"That's no way to speak to a lady," said Harry hotly. This Malfoy was even nastier than the one he knew, in fact, nastier than both the Draco Malfoys he knew. Didn't he know that a gentleman should never hit a lady? "I've had a long journey and I don't have the patience to deal with spoilt baby Slytherins, so why don't you, Tweedle-Dum and Tweedle-Dee sod off back to Wonderland and we can all have some breakfast." Harry released the blond's wrist, pushing it downwards towards his side.

Malfoy gaped a few times in shock. Clearly the Harry of this world was not one to stand up to Malfoy. Considering how influential Malfoy had once been, and if his father was on the board of directors here, Malfoy may have a lot of power here. To be safe, Harry decided that in future he had better tone down his character a little.

"You'll regret this, Potter," sneered Malfoy before stalking off, his cronies following in his wake.

Harry watched him go, his mind already reacting. So he was weak in this world, more so than in his home world. He would need to tone down his magic, lose some duels in Defence and generally be a slob. Still, if he put less effort into work, it meant more time on his research. However, this encounter had shown that he was out of his depth. From what he had seen, this world was very strange. He was dead, Riddle was headmaster and someone else had been marked with the infamous scar. Where the hell did he fit in?

On the bright side, he noted, if he was not the 'Chosen One' here, it meant he could concentrate on other things, i.e. escaping this world, and let this war rage on in peace, though that was probably not the best choice of words. Come to think of it, he didn't even know if they were still at war. Security was lax enough for this to be peace time.

"Harry?" said Katie slowly, after Malfoy had gone. Her brow was furrowed in thought as she regarding him cautiously. She hesitated. Harry turned to look at her, his eyes scanning her appraisingly. She wore trainers, jeans and a jumper, with her hair tied back with a clip. Her hay-coloured hair was ever so slightly highlighted by the sun, and her eyes sparkled for the same reason. His eyes scanned her scar, and he was grateful he had put on a bandana before going running as it now concealed his own. Her jaw tightened slightly in frustration as his eyes predictably scanned her forehead. He knew it to be frustrating and so didn't comment. Behind her eyes was a powerful stare, and he could see her mind working. _Oops. _In standing up to Malfoy, he had really made her suspicious.

"I don't mean to sound like Malfoy, but since when have you been the gobby type?" she asked.

Harry needed to tone it down, perhaps blame it on anger and frustration from having had his parents killed and then spending nearly a month in a Muggle hospital.

Harry fixed her with a piercing stare, his eyes boring into hers. She didn't look particularly comfortable and shifted from one foot to the other.

"Don't get me wrong," she quickly added. "It's good you're standing up to him at last, but I was just a little...surprised." She still seemed suspicious, and if she were anything like him, her curiosity would not permit her to stop nosing around until she found out why.

"So was he," Harry replied calmly, working out how to phrase his reply in his head. "But there is only so much a person can take before he snaps. I've had enough, I've put up with too much and I just lost control, right? Sorry." He sidestepped her and started walking off towards the stairs, his head hung low as if ashamed. Annoyingly, Katie fell into step beside him, with Neville on Harry's other side. They walked for a few seconds in silence before Katie spoke again.

"You've lost weight," she said, clearly trying to make small talk before asking the most obvious question. Harry kept his eyes straight ahead. He hadn't been expecting that particular question, but it wasn't hard to think of an answer.

"Spending a month comatose on an IV drip will do that to you," said Harry. "Not to mention the physiotherapy afterwards."

"An 'I'-what?" asked Neville.

"IV," answered Harry. "Liquid diet - ask Hermione."

It seemed that this little distraction was more than Katie's patience could take and she blurted out the question:

"Harry," she said. "What happened to you?" It was the question he knew he would be asked a hundred times a day, and so he had rehearsed his story, though to be honest, he didn't want to talk about it.

"I told Neville last night," said Harry absently, starting to climb the stairs. His t-shirt stuck to his skin as he moved. He really needed a shower. He could have a shower, get dressed, have something to eat and then it was definitely time to hit the books. Hopefully he could find the clues that had led Flamel to find the key, but this world's key may be hidden in a different place.

_However, first things first - let's start where Flamel had,_ he thought. He needed to track down the equivalent book from this world. This would be a little more complicated than he would first have assumed, as he had no experience with translation charms.

"…for that matter."

Harry was suddenly aware that Katie had been speaking again. He stared at her blankly, obviously not having heard a word.

"Sorry, what?"

"I said, that can't be it," said Katie. "Surely Riddle would have found you if you were in a Muggle hospital, or the Ministry for that matter."

"Riddle doesn't care," said Harry icily. Didn't she see that he was a scumbag? He wouldn't put himself out to look for a student, especially one as weak and feeble as Harry. No, he would only look for someone who was of value to him. "And the Ministry couldn't find snow in the middle of winter," he added, to get it off his chest.

"What's with the sudden hatred for Riddle?" asked Neville. "I mean, I agree about the Ministry - they've been shocking this year; but I thought you and Riddle got on well."

"Things change," said Harry, noting that that was how he used to be. "Being left alone for a month with strangers sticking needles in you kind of puts the world into perspective." This was becoming dangerous. They were discovering more differences, and he definitely had to hide his scar now. The longer he stayed, the deeper the hole he was digging himself into. He had to get out of here. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm a tad on the smelly side and I need a shower."

"Are you going to be alright?" asked Katie, concern etched into her face.

"I can walk up to the Tower on my own," said Harry bluntly. He had to keep up the persona; he couldn't afford to become attached.

"Malfoy will be out for revenge," said Neville.

"I can handle Malfoy," said Harry absently.

"I know your memory is a little wonky," said Neville. "In case you can't remember, Malfoy has a lot of influence thanks to his father. He can get away with anything."

"Then it should be interesting," said Harry. "Good day to you."

Harry turned on his heel and marched away, determined not to look back. He would not become attached; he would leave as soon as he had the key.

XxXxX

Katie watched Harry walk off along the corridor, heading for the stairs. He walked delicately, probably due to his muscles being tired and achy from his run. He raised an arm to wipe with sweat on his face away with his sleeve, but he never looked back. His whole poise was very…out of character. She wouldn't have described him as head-held-high, but there was a feel about him. It wasn't exactly confidence, for he seemed neither cocky nor outgoing. The only word she could think of to describe him was 'arrogant'. Not arrogance in the sense of boasting, or thinking he was the centre of the universe and everyone else is inferior, but arrogance in the sense that he didn't seem to care what other people thought. His tone wasn't patronising, but Katie got the distinct impression that Harry thought she was…again words escaped her. Not an inconvenience, but he seemed to be polite in that he had to live with her and Neville in Gryffindor, but he didn't need or want their help or friendship.

The conversation had been in some ways very enlightening, and in others, completely the opposite. She hadn't found out where he had been or what had happened, but she had found out something about him. This Harry was more confident than before, and a very cool customer. Were it not for the fact that she knew his magical ability was…limited, she might even have felt a glimmer of fear. Oh well, the boy had to grow up some time and start acting like a man. If it was true what he had told Neville last night, and he had been comatose in Muggle London, well, that shock might do it. Being alone and surrounded by strange people after a near death experience and those loss of his entire family would have changed his perceptions. Maybe the shock and horror had woken Harry up, and that would be a good thing, right?

"Well that went well," said Neville beside her, removing his beanie to scratch his head.

"This isn't the time for sarcasm," said Katie, her temper quickly rising. She was on edge enough at the moment, without having sarcasm to deal with.

"Okay, okay, take a chill pill," said Neville quickly. "I was right though, wasn't I? He is definitely different."

"Being alone in Muggle London would have caused anyone to grow up," said Katie.

"Which is good, isn't it?" added Neville. "We don't need to watch out for him, and Malfoy won't be as…well, actually, he will want revenge for his loss of face, but Harry might be able to deal with it on his own. Still, Malfoy isn't the real problem, is he?"

"That's what I'm worried about," said Katie. Neville had taken the words right out of her mouth. The old bat would come down on him like a tonne of bricks if she thought him to be too weak. She had been vicious enough before he had disappeared, and if Harry's mind was all over the place, the next few weeks would not be pleasant for him.

"You reckon he can take it?"

"He seemed…not distant, but preoccupied," said Katie, playing the conversation over again in her head. "But he is definitely hiding something. I want to know is where he's been. Why won't he talk about it? He's known us long enough."

"Maybe it's too painful," suggested Neville. "You don't like talking about your parents."

"Maybe," said Katie. She knew that logically he was right, but there was dark feeling in the pit of her stomach that she couldn't shake. "But I've just got this feeling that there's something about him he isn't telling us. I don't trust him."

"It's Harry Potter," said Neville, almost laughing. "What could he possibly do?"

"Blow the whistle on us," said Katie, her face serious. This was anything but a laughing matter.

"He doesn't know what's going on, does he?" said Neville, becoming serious once more. "He was never invited."

"No," said Katie in agreement. "He wasn't, and let's keep it that way. Until we know exactly what is going on with him, not a word."

XxXxX

Tom Riddle watched the Potter-Malfoy exchange with interest. He knew for a fact that the boy had died and yet now he was back, right as rain, but so different. In truth, Riddle was stumped about Harry. The boy was a walking, talking contradiction. He raised so many questions; questions that in turn made Tom question his own beliefs. If only he were wiser, he might see what was missing. _Albus would have known,_ he thought sadly._ Albus would know what to do_. Tom's thoughts strayed to his mentor. Why oh why couldn't he have lived?

No. What was done was done. Tom pushed the thought of Albus aside. It had been fifty years ago, he needed to concentrate on the present. The climate in the school was changing, and he needed to keep the peace. With all that was happening, both publicly and behind the scenes, Tom felt more stretched than ever before. He felt so tired – it was finally catching up with him. He had so much to worry about, both inside and outside of the school, and Harry Potter was definitely on his list, but how high?

Was the change in persona of one student who until now had nothing to do with current events, really so important? Were it not for the weapons he had carried when he arrived and his ability to block him mind, Tom would have said no, but there was no something distinctly odd about Harry Potter. It was in everything from his slight, but noticeable weight-loss, to the way he now carried himself as he walked. He seemed so different.

He was definitely a concern, and he was not the only one in the school. Draco Malfoy was a prime example.

The boy's father had once been a Death Eater, though the charges hadn't been dropped. That was fifteen years ago. These days, officially he was a well-respected and law-abiding man and a member of the board of governors, though Tom doubted had his suspicions that Lucius had not truly renounced his dark past. He was not the only one. Fifteen years ago, there were others who had been released, claiming bewitchment or duress. The sons and daughters of those former Death Eaters walked these corridors even today; sadly, it was always the Slytherins.

Tom had been a Slytherin; in fact he was even the _heir _of Slytherin. In his veins flowed the blood of the founder, but few people knew, of course. While it was his right to run the school, he did not want the bad image of being descended from a Dark Lord, nor to seem as though he was demanding power based on his heritage. Ironically, when he had been at school, the bitter and twisted little orphan with a passion for power, he had used his heritage to gain respect. He had paraded it amongst his closest friends. These days, he kept it hidden. Oh, how much he had changed._ Thank you, Albus. _

Even in Tom's day, Slytherin had been far from popular – on reflection, this may have been mostly Tom's fault. Through the years, the tension between Slytherin and the other houses had grown and grown. Now with most of the Slytherins' parents having been accused of being Death Eaters, the house was more feared than despised though it was a volatile mixture of both. Draco Malfoy above all strutted around as if he owned the place. He was feared for his father's influence. Potter had embarrassed the Slytherin, and the little snake would not let that go. Tom's thoughts turned to the other boy.

Harry Potter. The boy was nice enough, if lacking in confidence. He was friendly and his heart was in the right place. He was just one of those people for whom everything seems to go wrong. He was a little clumsy and his grades were a little below average. He had had a hard life, having lost his parents to a fate worse than death at less than one year old. He lived with his aunt and uncle in Surrey, a couple that did not embrace magic as something to be cherished and nurtured.

All this Tom knew to be true, but that was not what he had just seen. Potter had stood up for himself and made the sharp-tongued Slytherin look like a fool. He would never have done anything like that before. He had been gone for nearly a month. What on earth had happened to him? Tom could see that he was holding something back. Whatever he claimed, Harry _did _remember something, but he wouldn't say what it was. Why was he hiding it? Shame? Fear? Guilt? Tom could not get rid of the feeling that it was something more, something darker.

Should Tom Legilimise Harry? No. the boy had Occluded his mind when Tom had tried before. Someone had taught him Occlumency - the boy would feel Tom's attempt, and there was no telling how he would react. Tom also noted that learning Occlumency was not a side-effect of a coma. Where had he learned it? Who had taught him? Why wouldn't he say? So many questions! Tom knew that the best course of action was to befriend Harry and have him share the information voluntarily. How - that was the big question. Whatever method he tried, it would take time.

But what if he was hiding something dangerous? One boy's privacy should not outweigh the lives of all the innocent students around him. No - it was the wrong thing to do. Albus would never have done so. Tom resolved to find out what was wrong with Harry Potter – he would just take a subtler approach. _In fact,_ he mused, eyeing the girl who had been talking to Harry._ It might be better if it were not I who asked him._ He made a mental note to ask Minerva to subtly encourage the girl's suspicions.

However, before he startd plotting and scheming, Tom had official business to take care of. Tom went into the Great Hall via the back way to avoid the students. He disliked the way that all chatter seemed to stop as he entered a room. Sitting at the head table, Tom watched those who remained in the school arrive for breakfast. At the Slytherin table, Malfoy was shooting daggers over at the Gryffindor table and then at the door, presumably intended for one young Gryffindor who was not present. The boy himself had not yet arrived and Tom assumed he had gone up to the Tower for a shower. Potter definitely seemed more confident, more calm today. Still, it was better to announce him to the school, rather than let him walk in here unprepared.

"Your attention please," called Riddle when he felt the hall was full enough. Of the fifty or so students still here for Christmas, over forty were in the Hall. "So you are all aware, the notice you were given a month ago about the death of Harry Potter was inaccurate. Mr Potter is alive and well and will be joining you later today. This has been a tough time for him and he is not fully healed, so please give him space. Thank you."

There was a fair amount of muttering from the students who had stayed for Christmas, nineteen of whom came from Gryffindor. They immediately began to discuss the news, Longbottom and Bell taking the lead as they had met him since his return. Not feeling the least bit hungry, Tom decided to return to his office. He had some work to do, and he planned to begin his searches of Muggle Hospitals. Tom would find out where Harry had been, if only to get an accurate diagnosis of what kind of mental state he was in, but hopefully a lot more than that.

XxXxX

Harry knocked on the door to the Hospital Wing at ten minutes past ten. He had had a shower and then breakfast as planned.

While he was eating, Neville had informed him that Riddle would expect him in the Hospital Wing at ten o'clock. Harry was in no hurry and didn't care if he kept Riddle waiting, so he had had a long, drawn out breakfast of croissants and tea. As he had expected, the hall had fallen utterly silent when he had entered, so had quickly taken a seat at the Gryffindor table, but several feet away from anyone else. Looking around, everyone had seemed to be staring at him, even those few teachers who had remained. McGonagall in particular had been staring at him with an expression he could not read. Malfoy had already up and left the hall, and the Slytherin table held only a pair of second years.

Once he had finished, Harry had made his way slowly up the stairs to the Hospital Wing, his mind miles away. He had promised Riddle that he would attend this meeting, though he didn't like having to do so. On reflection, there was nothing Pomfrey could get from him that didn't match the other Harry, however he still felt nervous. DNA, fingerprint, magical signature, even the Marauder's Map - wherever it was - would identify him as Harry Potter. Still, he resented the idea of being studied like a lab rat, though he would feel no pity if Peter Pettigrew was put in a cage and experimented upon.

He thrust the thought aside as he arrived. He had elected to wear a wool beanie hat in addition to his oversized jeans and hooded jumper; both of which were still marked 'DD'. It was cold enough to warrant such a hat, and it certainly helped to hide his scar. He hoped he wouldn't be asked to take it off. Riddle must not see that scar.

Harry raised his hand and knocked on the hospital door. A voice replied from the other side of the door beckoning him in. Harry pushed open the door and stepped inside, his body instantly tensing at the sight of Tom Riddle.

The man stood to the right, next to Madam Pomfrey, who was seated behind her desk, a cup of tea and a plate with a buttered scone on it were on top of the desk along with a copy of the_ Prophet_, which she appeared to have been reading. She looked up as Harry entered, but made no move to clear anything away or even fold the paper. She hardly seemed like she had been working, noted Harry. Probably just chatting with Riddle.

"Anything interesting?" asked Harry, trying to keep the conversation light and irrelevant.

"Absolutely nothing," replied Riddle. "Unless you count Mrs Agatha Dimpleton winning first place in the West Hampshire gnome throwing competition to be of great significance."

Harry shook his head. He took the opportunity to do a quick sweep of the room. There was nothing out of place and the beds were all empty.

"So..." he said, trying to force a smile and hide his nerves.

"Right you are," said Madam Pomfrey, rising from her chair and pushing the last of the scone into her mouth. "Sit up on the bed, please, Potter," she said once she had finished.

Obediently, Harry sat on the bed, his legs swinging beneath him. His wand was stashed up his left sleeve and his hands were in his lap, together, where he could get at his wand very quickly and very easily. He had felt it was better to err on the side of caution.

"I shall leave you to it," said Riddle, excusing himself. He left quickly and Harry relaxed slightly.

"Do you have any lasting injuries?" she asked, eying him carefully and picking up her wand from the desk.

"No," said Harry. "Everything I got from the fire has been healed. A few scars here and there from debris, but I'm fine." Madam Pomfrey lowered her wand to near his feet. The tip began to glow blue and she moved it slowly upwards, keeping it six inches from his body. At length she reached his head.

"No broken bones or fractures," she said aloud. "Hand." Harry extended his hand and she lowered her wand to it. There was a tingling sensation and a few drops of blood seeped out through his skin. Madam Pomfrey scooped the small sample into a phial and put a cork in the end. She placed the phial on her desk. Harry stared at it, knowing full well what it could mean. From that Riddle could check his DNA, his magic and only God knew what else. Harry was sure that he was safe, but there was a nagging doubt in the back of his mind that Riddle might be able to get something from his blood. He pushed the worry aside – it was nothing but paranoia.

Unfortunately, blood was only the beginning.

"Right," said Madam Pomfrey. "Get them off."

"What?" said Harry, his jaw dropping. Did he just have a filthy mind or did she mean…?

"Your clothes, take them off," she repeated. Harry didn't know what to say. He opened his mouth to protest, and stood gaping like a goldfish. There was no way he was getting naked for this woman.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake, Potter," she said impatiently. "Get over your embarrassment and take them off, we don't have all day. It's nothing I haven't seen before."

Harry opened his mouth to ask her when she had seen him naked before, but then realised she was speaking generally, or at least, he hoped she was.

"You mean…?" he said, unable to form proper sentences.

"Oh, not all the way, boy," she said rolling her eyes. "Just down to your underwear. Organic fabric, like the wool in your clothes, gets in the way of some more sensitive spells." Taking a deep breath, Harry pulled his jumper up over his head. He kicked off his shoes and, undoing his belt, dropped his trousers, all the while feeling blood creeping to his head. He was blushing and he knew it.

A cool breeze brushed lightly over his skin and he felt goosebumps rise. He stared over Pomfrey's head, staring at a spot on the wall, trying not to focus on his nakedness. Oh, this was awkward. He was so glad Riddle had left. He looked around the room, glancing at the clock, wishing it were over.

Pomfrey on the other hand, acted as though she had all the time in the world. Harry felt a shiver run down his spine as he saw a box of latex gloves. He gulped. Surely not! She tried anything like that and he'd do a runner, Riddle be damned. Harry stood there, almost naked, his arms crossed over his chest, while one extended past his stomach and below his waist, blocking prying eyes. It didn't alleviate the awkwardness of the moment. _Give me a Dark Lord any day,_ thought Harry, _just as long as I am not in my birthday suit._

Harry managed to get his composure back. He realised his heart was pounding, and so took a few deep breaths in an effort to calm himself.

"Right," said Pomfrey, looking his up and down. "Oh, Potter, really, take the hat off, it's not that cold."

"Alright for you to say," said Harry before he had time to think. "Your not in the buff!" She shot him a cold stare, which clearly said 'we are not amused'.

This presented Harry with a problem, if he removed the hat, it would reveal his scar. If he raised a hand to cover it, he could expose something else that wasn't meant for prying eyes. God, he hoped no one walked in at this moment.

Harry took a deep breath, and swallowing his pride, he raised his right hand, and pulled off his hat. He turned as he did to hide his forehead. When he turned back, he brushed his hair forward with his hand, but knew it would not cover the scar. He was forced to keep one hand up there, as if feigning a headache. The trouble was that as a Healer, she could cure the headache in seconds and insist on his arm being moved. He mustn't play it up too much.

Harry stood in the middle of a freezing Hospital Wing, wearing just blue socks and a pair of black boxers, which were a little big and looked like they were about to fall apart. He had one hand on his forehead, the other failing to block the view of his boxers. If it were happening to someone else, it would be laughable.

Pomfrey started to move the wand again, the tip glowing green this time, as it passed near his body.

"Basic toxicology," said Pomfrey to herself, as she made notes. "Negative."

"Before we go on, Potter," she said, fixing his with a piercing stare that made Harry gulp. She knew something was wrong. What had she discovered?

"Where did you get that scar?"

Has she seen it? Had he not covered it? God damn it, he was up the creek now. Riddle would know that he was not their Harry. He would have to leave, go into hiding until he managed to find a way home. He could live…in that cave Sirius had, and steal food in Phoenix form._ The Thieving Phoenix_ would make the headlines for out-of-character behaviour, but never mind. Harry just knew that he could never let Riddle know how he was. If Riddle found the Node…it didn't bear thinking about.

"If I didn't know better," said Pomfrey suspiciously, "I would say that it was a stab would, and it looks deep."

"What?" asked Harry she gestured to his shoulder.

Frank Longbottom had once run the Dark Knight through, shattering his collar bone in the process. Harry still carried the scar.

"And as for those," she continued. He had two lines across his stomach, where a young Auror had cut him with his own sword in a dingy basement in Little Hangleton. "They look like cuts with a blade.

"Err…" stammered Harry, thinking quickly. "Well, I'd have thought it was obvious."

She raised an eyebrow.

"I was caught in an explosion at St Mungo's. Flying debris. The cuts on my stomach are surgical, from the Muggles. They said they had to operate while I was unconscious." She looked sceptical. Harry swallowed hard. What if she didn't believe him? What if she knew he was lying? What if she told Riddle? Luckily, after a few seconds, she spoke.

"Butchers," scoffed Pomfrey. She shook her head and turned her attention back to her wand. She seemed to accept His story. She did her traditional "tut tut" at a few of his other scars, but then went back to her tests. Harry breathed a sigh of relief. That had been close!

Over the next half hour Madam Pomfrey carried out all sorts of tests. Some involved her scanning him with a wand, the more embarrassing ones included a urine sample. She also did the basic reflex and sensitivity tests. Having a nurse prodding and poking his almost naked body was not as enjoyable an experience as he had been led to believe, not this nurse anyway.

It was quarter to eleven when, fully dressed once more, Harry sat back down and the psychological evaluation began. Pomfrey had already tested his body, his senses and then his reflexes, and was sure his nervous system was working, but now it was time to evaluate his mind. She had had him cast a spell which created a small ball of light by his head, which changed colour to reflect his emotions. She had then shown him various photos and gauged his emotional reaction to the stimuli. The photos ranged from childhood photos and cute animals to dead bodies, Death Eaters, and other gory pictures. With each one, Madam Pomfrey made her customary 'Hmmm'.

"Well, your tolerance to violent images and death is a little high, but you're not a psychopath," she noted.

"Glad to hear it," muttered Harry, a little more truthfully than she was aware.

"That would come from witnessing what you have seen," she said. Harry froze - how could she know what he had seen? "Near-death experiences tend to have similar effects, and the fire certainly counts as that." Harry breathed a sigh of relief, but kept his face set.

She then began a line of questioning based on his past, testing for his reactions. Harry remained as dead-pan as possible, earning many 'hmmm's along the way.

She went on to basic maths and reasoning problems. Harry wasn't sure why an IQ test was necessary, but he didn't complain. At least he wasn't naked. It was midday by the time she finished. Riddle returned just as they were finishing.

"All done?" he asked politely as he entered.

"Yes," said Madam Pomfrey, much to Harry's relief. "Rest assured, headmaster, the boy is in perfect health. Physically, he has souvenirs of the fire, but no lasting damage. Psychologically, he seems fine, but I believe he may still be in shock, hence the more aggressive persona than we are used to. I recommend-" Harry gritted his teeth, knowing what was coming. "-that he rest for a few days. Only time can cure shock."

Riddle glanced from Madam Pomfrey to Harry, who quickly shook his head. Riddle had better honour his side of the deal, - Harry would turn up for the exam and Riddle would not make him stay here to rest.

Riddle turned back to Pomfrey, "Since lessons have not started yet," he said politely, "I see no harm in Harry being allowed to return to the population."

"But..." protested Madam Pomfrey.

"As a sixth year, Harry is mature enough to alert someone if something is wrong, am I right, Harry?" Harry nodded, thankful that Riddle had kept his end of the bargain. Harry jumped to his feet before Madam Pomfrey could object. He was out the door before another word could be uttered.

In fact, Harry didn't stop running until he was almost to the Fat Lady. It was New Year's Day and the common room was subdued, possibly due to the fact that a few of the elder students may have had a cheeky drink the night before. Harry wasn't bothered – he had bigger things to worry about than a few hangovers.

He collapsed into a chair by the fire and sprawled out, staring into the flames. He was relieved that he had gotten away with the examination this morning, but only just. His blood shouldn't reveal anything unusual and no one had seen his scar. The whole episode had been demeaning and degrading, but at least he only had to go through it once. It was over now, and with a bit of luck he would never again have to set foot in the Hospital Wing during his time here.

He lay for a few moments letting his heart slow after having run up all those stairs. He gazed absently across at the window and the grey sky outside. Harry began to consider what he knew about this world. He had already had some near misses when it came to not knowing basic information about this world. He had no wish to make Riddle or Katie more suspicious.

_Right, _said Harry to himself._ What do I know for sure? _

He knew that Katie Bell was the Chosen One. Riddle had said that the Dark Lord had fallen because of her. Did Harry assume it had happened along the same lines as his own conflict with Voldemort? It was too much to assume – he would have to find out somehow.

But what of Harry's own past? Harry's parents had been cursed just like the Longbottoms back home. Harry felt no real sadness at the loss of his parents, only regret that anyone had suffered that fate. He had his own family and his own friends spread across two worlds. He wasn't seeking to collect families. He apparently lived with the Dursleys here, but he aimed to be gone long before the end of the summer term so would never have to deal with them. On the whole, he seemed to be pretty obligation-free. He was friends with the Gryffindors, but they didn't seem that close. No matter – fewer distractions meant he could be gone quicker.

His thoughts returned to the Dark Lord, or rather, the lack thereof. Given that Riddle had told him in the past tense that the Dark Lord had fallen and given the state of security, it seemed that the war was over. With no Dark Lord and no security people checking on him every few minutes he could research in peace. No Dark Lord made his life so much easier. Harry wondered what a world with no Dark Lord would be like. He wondered what it would be like to be truly without fear. Not having to look over his shoulder. It would be nice, but ultimately, it was not the place for him. With luck, he could return home, and bring that kind of peace to his own world.

One thought occurred to him, though. If Katie was indeed the _Girl-Who-Lived_ - Harry smirked at the name - then, given what he knew about this world, she seemed to have had a much easier time than he had. Voldemort had risen from the grave in his world, but here there was no sign of this having happened. _Ah,_ said a nasty voice in his head. _But if she is the same as you, then the Dark Lord is not truly gone._

If this world was a reflection of his own, then surely the Dark Lord was still alive. However, given that Riddle didn't seem to be on alert and the castle had next to no security, the Dark Lord couldn't have risen again. Anyway, Harry would be long gone by the time he did - Harry didn't consider it to be a problem. This wasn't his world; it wasn't his fight. Let Katie and Riddle deal with it.

But Harry's curiosity had gotten the better of him. Was there a Dark Lord or not? Was he dead? What had happened? He needed to know roughly what was happening if he was to blend in with this world during his time here. Riddle had been suspicious when he had not known about his parents. His fib about his memory seemed to have worked, but it was supposed to be coming back. If he didn't know about the Dark Lord, it would arouse suspicion.

On a related note – who the hell was the Dark Lord? Riddle was here, so it couldn't be Voldemort. Who on Earth could it be?

It was this thought that led Harry down to the History of Magic classroom after lunch that day. Binns taught lessons, but he was also a researcher. The ghost apparently spent his holidays in archives, and still published books, despite the fact that he was dead. He would be the most knowledgeable person to ask, or at least the safest.

The gloomy room seemed more alive when it was empty than it was when full. The sun poured in through the windows, highlighting the dust in the air. The room was in utter silence.

What if Binns wasn't in his office? Where would a ghost go for its holidays? Charter a ghost ship through the Bermuda triangle? Harry entered the room and crossed to the door that led to the History office. He knocked on the door, which rattled noisily. The door was hardly ever used, as Binn normally floated through it as he entered the classroom, droning on in his monotone about goblin rebellions. Flamel had been a considerable improvement to Binns.

There was no answer, so Harry knocked again. He waited another ten seconds before twisting the handle and entering the office. As he had feared, it was deserted. Dusty books lined the shelves and the only movement in the room was the shadows of trees blowing in the wind outside the window.

Harry cursed under his breath. He made a note to come and speak to Binns as soon as he returned.

XxXxX

As it turned out, it was another week before Binns did return. Harry spent most of the week trying to avoid people. While he had no direct contact with Riddle, he had a feeling that he was being watched wherever he went. He passed McGonagall once or twice during that week, and he was fairly sure that she was not there by accident.

This, he realised, was an inconvenience and was potentially problematic. He didn't want McGonagall seeing the kind of books he was going to be reading, and then to go squealing to Riddle. The headmaster was already suspicious, to put it mildly, so Harry would need to lie low for the next week or so. Once the rest of the students returned on Sunday, Riddle would be too busy to pay much heed to Harry. Then he could speak to Binns and begin his work in getting himself out of this topsy-turvy world.

From what Harry had overheard in the common room, Katie too was not having any direct contact with Riddle. It seemed that these days he didn't seem to have any time for her. Was Harry that much of a distraction that Riddle would turn his back on the one who truly needed his help? Harry, for some reason, felt glad at that. It just showed that Riddle wasn't as good as Dumbledore. Harry felt like waving a finger in Riddle's face and telling him he was rubbish compared to Dumbledore. He was, however, not stupid enough to actually do it, and also, he wasn't sure which finger to wave.

Instead, Harry kept his head down and his ears open. His insatiable curiosity had him ear-wigging on other people's conversations. From the snippets of conversation he had heard around the room, people seemed to be able to come and go at will and the Ministry was not in a state of alert. Hogsmeade trips were still allowed. Harry could almost believe that this world was one of peace.

It was Saturday morning when Binns returned. Harry had asked Nearly Headless Nick to let him know when the professor floated back in, and Nick had been only too happy to help. Harry went down to visit Binns in his classroom after lunch. The professor seemed most surprised at the knock on his office door, and when he floated through it and out into the classroom, a look of curiosity and surprise was etched into his translucent features.

"Ah, Mister Potter," he greeted Harry. "Sir Nicholas informed me that you had returned. Welcome back." Harry for one didn't believe in his sincerity. He had rarely spoken to Binns outside of class, but he had always thought the ghost as a rather morbid character who didn't really care. He wasn't a bad man, but he was somewhat lacking in social skills. Harry doubted he would mind if someone died in his lessons, as long as they did it quietly and their ghost paid attention.

"Thank you, professor," said Harry in his most charming voice. He was aware that lying, or acting, as he preferred to think of it, was coming disturbingly naturally to him. "I was wondering if you could help me."

"And what might I be able to do for you?" asked Binns, settling on his desk and staring at Harry.

"Sir, I wanted to ask you something."

"Ask away my boy, ask away," said Binns, not taking his eyes off Harry.

"I was wondering how much you know about the Dark Lord and the Girl-Who-Lived."

"A project?" said Binns cautiously. "Defence Against the Dark Arts, perhaps?"

"Not exactly," said Harry, trying not to look awkward. "Sir, I spent nearly a month in a coma, so my memory is a bit wonky," lied Harry. "I don't want to worry her or waste her time with stupid questions about her past, and there aren't any books about it."

"No, there wouldn't be," said Binns. "Even today, no one dares to write about the Dark Lord, and Miss Bell has certainly never published an autobiography. You'd be very hard-pressed to find a book about them at Hogwarts that would give you details on the Dark Lord."

"But you obviously know all about it, sir," said Harry, cautiously flattering the professor. "I mean a wizard like you, a professor of history, I'm sorry, if you can't tell me, obviously if you can't give out details about a student, I understand but I just knew that if anyone could tell me, you could so I just thought I'd ask." **(Rowling, 2006)**

Harry was quite impressed with himself. He had kept it casual, appearing hesitant and gentle. He just hoped it had gotten through. He had had to extract information from many reluctant people over the years, and had become quite good at it.

Binns appeared thoughtful for a second, before answering.

"You must appreciate, Potter," said the ghost softly, "that I cannot give out details about a student. Miss Bell's personal details, just like yours, are protected by law and it would be morally wrong for me to give them out to anyone who asked. As for the Dark Lord, yes, I can tell you what I know. He is dead and gone, and even if he were not, he could hardly kill me again."

"Thank you, professor," said Harry politely. Katie's details he could get later, from her or from the grapevine, though he would need to take the information he got from rumours with a barrel full of salt.

"Take a seat, Potter," said Binns. "I do enjoy such historical debates. So tell me, what do you want to know?"

"Who he is would be a good start," said Harry.

If it were possible, Binns seemed to pale even further. His smile faded and he looked, if anything, a tad frightened. "We do not speak his name," said the ghost hurriedly, looking around. "Bad luck. I daren't say it aloud."

"Perhaps you could write it," suggested Harry, realising that he had had this conversation before, with Hagrid. Unlike Hagrid, Binns could spell. The ghost paused for a second, and then picked up a piece of chalk and moved to the board. His fingers shaking, he began to write:

G…R…I…N

"Grindelwald," breathed Harry, his eyebrows flying up beneath the beanie he wore to hide his scar. The effect on Binns was instantaneous He spun around, white as a sheet, his jaw dropped and his eyes wide.

"You said his name!" gasped Binns. Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He needed to appear curious, not cocky.

"Just testing my pronunciation," Harry said quickly, conjuring a feeble excuse. Binns regarded him cautiously for a few seconds before putting the chalk down. For a second, Harry feared he might decide that this was a bad idea and disappear, but instead he returned to his seat, the wary look never leaving his translucent face. Harry breathed a sigh of relief and made a note to go gently with Binns. It seemed he was easily spooked, which was quite ironic for a ghost.

"You must never again utter that name," he said seriously in the most assertive tone Harry had every heard the old ghost use. Binns was serious. Harry would need to be careful. In lessons, he droned on. It seemed in private, the old teacher was capable of being more stern. Harry needed his input, so he would have to tread softly.

"Right, sir," said Harry, nodding apologetically. "Never again. I know now." Binns seemed to relax. Harry waited a few seconds before speaking again. "So what do you know about…_him_?"

"Where should I start?" asked Binns, probably more to himself.

"Probably at the beginning," said Harry helpfully, though immediately wished he hadn't. He feared Binns might take it for sarcasm. Luckily, the ghost didn't even blink.

"Right you are," said Binns. "If you wish to study a man, tracing his past is a logical way to start. You would have been a good student for NEWT History, Potter. Methodical thinker."

"Thank you, sir," said Harry, making a mental note that he was apparently good at history. He also realised that this was a testimony to his apparently good acting, as no teacher in his own world would describe him as a methodical thinker; quite the opposite, in fact.

"Unfortunately," the professor began, "Very little is known about his early years. All we have to go on are rumours, as no documents have ever been found. As a historian, I cannot accept rumours as fact. Remember Potter, historians seek fact, not truth. If you want truth, you need only look to philosophy. "

"I understand," said Harry, not entirely truthfully; however, he was unperturbed. Binns had agreed to tell him, so this afternoon would not be a complete waste.

In his head, Harry quickly played over what he knew about Grindelwald, which in truth was very little - just what he had read on the back of Dumbledore's frog card. Grindelwald had been a Dark Lord and Dumbledore had defeated him in 1945. Shortly after that, the Muggle war had ended. Therefore, it was most likely that Grindelwald was German, if not a Nazi, and was involved with World War two. Of course, these were only assumptions.

Then again, Harry couldn't help but wonder about a link between Grindelwald and Voldemort. The first time that the Chamber of Secrets had been opened was fifty years before his second year, which made it 1942. Perhaps Grindelwald had played some part in the creation of Voldemort. The dates lined up. Was he an inspiration at the time? Was Grindelwald as prolific as Voldemort?

"What are the most popular or most reliable rumours?" asked Harry, leading the professor gently into an answer before realising he seemed a little too forward. He decided to back off. "I read somewhere that he was around in Germany during the Muggle war."

"That he was," said Binns, nodding. "We believe he was born around 1915, give or take a few years. His real name is a mystery, as is his exact age. We cannot even verify his nationality. No birth certificate has ever been found and anyone who knew him in his youth is either scared to come forward or dead - some by age, some by his hand. He was always meticulously thorough about eliminating witnesses."

"Then where do the stories come from?" asked Harry.

"You are failing to see the big picture," said Binns a little more firmly. "Because, during his early reign, he made the point of eliminating witnesses, what we have to go on are mostly rumours, not accounts. In fact, the only reliable accounts we have of that time are from the Nuremburg Trials. Also, you shouldn't use the word 'stories'. It isn't a tale with a moral, hero and villain. Rumours started the way they always do. Perhaps an Auror found a body, and then made his assumptions about what had happened. News travels in pubs and bars and embellishments are added along the route. Much of what I am about to tell you, much of it must be taken with a pinch of salt."

"I will, sir," said Harry. He knew how the rumours about him had sprung up; it was basically a giant game of Chinese whispers.

"We know that he was active in Germany throughout the Nazi era," began Binns, leaning back.

"Fact?" asked Harry.

"Yes," said Binns. "By his own confession, by rumour, and of course, by what happens later. I will explain. We know he lived in Nazi-controlled Germany in the pre-war years, though we doubt he is German. He came from, or rather through, the so-called social elite, a wealthy family perhaps, which bought him influence."

"Would that not limit the number of people he might be?" asked Harry. "Couldn't he be traced through family records?"

"Not that simple, I'm afraid," said Binns. "During the war and then the depression, records were poorly kept. Also, he later had enough influence to make sure they were destroyed. That is, if we were even looking in the correct country. Former Death Eaters, survivors, Aurors, and the few who have met him always said that his grasp of English was perfect, his accent near native. However, we have heard the same from the French, Italian, and German Aurors. His features, before his transformation, were Caucasian, most likely European, but again we have no evidence to back this up. In short, we do not know him from Adam."

"I thought you said he killed all witnesses," said Harry. "So how do we know so much about his accent?"

"Ah, I am confusing you," said Binns, sitting up. "In the early years, yes he was. From about the late sixties onwards, his objectives and methods changed. We'll get to that. These observations about him are from reports of the last few years leading up to his defeat. Understand?"

"Okay," said Harry, moving on to his next question. "So, why Germany?" asked Harry. Why would anyone floating between countries and speaking all those languages want to settle in the country that had lost the first world war, whose reputation and economy were in tatters? If Harry had been floating between countries, he would have settled in Australia or Canada.

"How much do you know about Europe at the time?"

"A little," said Harry, thinking back to his primary school history lessons. _Hitler was a bad man, Germany had lost two wars. We won. _ That was about all he knew.

"At the Treaty of Versailles, after the first war," said Binns, "Germany was banned from having ships over a certain size, an army over a certain size, and an air force. The reparations plunged the country into chaos and national shame, made worse by the Wall Street Crash in nineteen twenty-nine. Life was hard, which made a perfect recruitment ground for extremists. Extremists are manipulators who feed on fear, anger, and need. The German people needed something to believe in, and the former upper classes were angry at having lost everything. Anger, hate, desire for revenge, and a need to survive. Perfect recruits for someone offering revenge."

"Surely they would know he was a murdering psycho?" said Harry, unable to see how people could trust such a person.

"Perhaps," said Binns. "Bear in mind, though, that it is easy to recruit a foot soldier. Even today, go to the slums, find a tramp, and with a bottle of vodka you could make him do whatever you want. However, to recruit a learned man, you need to appeal to his emotions, his anger and his desire for revenge. Intelligent people are hard to recruit, but the return on them is fantastic. Why do you think that even in the most war torn parts of the world, universities are seldom touched? No fundamentalist would attack a university, as they are recruiting grounds for the next generation of specialists, men who in turn can organise the foot soldiers."

"Okay, I understand that, but I don't see the reference to G...You-Know-Who," said Harry.

"At the time," Binns explained, "Everyone wanted revenge, the rich and the poor alike. If you want an example of how bad it was, take Adolf Hitler for example. He was a charismatic speaker who saw that if he added an anti-Semitic comment to a speech, he received better responses from ordinary Germans. They were looking for someone to blame for the loss of the first war and the current poverty, and he took advantage of that and played to the country's emotions. The next thing the people knew, he was in power, and part of the reason for that was his anti-Semetic comments, and so the people ended up with a country that hated anything Jewish. He used their hatred to unite and then control them, rich and poor alike."

"I don't s…," began Harry, but Binns was not finished.

"If you were looking for someone to bribe to break into the Ministry, what would you do?" asked Binns loudly, cutting Harry off, more animated that Harry had ever seen him before.

Harry froze. Binns couldn't know that Harry had actually done it, except without the bribe. Harry shifted awkwardly. Binns didn't notice and kept on talking.

"You would find a person in the right department," Binns answered his own question. "You would be looking for someone who needs something. Perhaps money - you could find someone in debt. Perhaps a promotion, if this person had been passed over and you had a contact who might be able to give them a job. In short, you need someone who is dissatisfied and resentful. The entire German government was in this position."

"Imagine an entire country with that same vulnerability," continued Binns. "The ultimate secret take-over. You asked 'why Germany' - the answer is that it was a land of opportunity. The Muggles weren't the only ones bitter over the loss of the first war - Wizards had helped out, and been punished in equal standing. We can argue forever and a day about whether the Treaty of Versailles was too harsh, infeasible, or just inadequate, but the point is that both worlds, magical and Muggle, were bitter and wanted someone to blame. He offered people a way to regain their former wealth and pride and to take their revenge on just about anyone they fancied, as long as they did his bidding in return."

"Jesus," said Harry aloud. This scenario echoed a similar situation just a few short weeks ago.

"Initially, his followers were from the former high society, and were few in number," said Binns. "He was selective, recruiting only the learned class - men who legitimately controlled other people, department heads, for example. As I have said, it is more of a challenge to recruit learned men, but the rewards are greater. You-Know-Who recruited a handful of the upper class, who in turn had influence over the lower echelons. The footsoldiers didn't know whom they were working for, but the Dark Lord was tremendously well-informed and soon had his fingers in all the departments. Can you guess what happened next?"

"Deaths?" said Harry, remember when he had lived through this nightmare.

"Precisely," said Binns. "There are always those who cannot be bought, and so other means were used. It didn't take long before there were mysterious deaths as he removed those who stood against him. You must understand that he was extraordinarily influential. He had all the wealth of his followers, the social elite, at his disposal. He had influence in all departments, and his phenomenal magical ability and intelligence made him a very dangerous opponent."

"Is this all fact?" asked Harry.

"Yes," said Binns. "Do you recall I mentioned the Nuremburg Trials earlier, as being the only reliable records we have? Well, at Nuremburg a jury made up of Aurors from Great Britain, France, Russia and America tried a handful of Death Eaters. From the confessions of the first generation of Death Eaters, we can piece together roughly what happened, though only the Dark Lord himself knew the full extent of his reach. We never knew his ultimate goal, as even the most senior of his followers were never taken into his confidence, but at least we know how he operated."

"You said that people didn't know whom they were working for?" asked Harry.

"The same problem we faced when he fell," said Binns. "Everyone claimed to be a blind or bewitched."

"Blind?"

"They didn't know whom they were working for," explained Binns. "They received false letters claiming to be from superiors, or they did seemingly innocent little favours for powerful people, who in turn were doing their own little favours and so on. It soon accumulated into a lot of information - that kind of thing. It was impossible to tell who was truely a Death Eater and who was being used."

"What about the Dark Mark?" asked Harry.

"Wasn't used until later," said Binns matter-of-factly. "We'll get to that."

"So what happened next?" asked Harry.

"When the second war started, there were many wizards who joined in," continued Binns. "They were as bitter as the Muggles about Versailles and they sought to bring pride back to Germany. Some became highly dangerous, helping the Nazis and German Army in the fight against the British.

"During the Blitz, our own Aurors were all over-worked trying to protect London. We didn't have the resources to fight the Germans on their own soil. The bombings, the fires, the evacuations…we were overrun. Compared to Germany, our magical population is tiny. In the upper echelons of the Ministry of Magic there was at the time a department that dealt with covert operations. It was decided that since we could not fight the Germans ourselves, we would recruit someone who could. Someone in Germany who didn't like the government, who could be convinced to fight for us. We could supply You-Know-Who with weapons, Aurors to train his men, and financial aid, in return for his cooperation."

"He worked for us?"

"Indeed," said Binns. "Bear in mind that he wasn't a threat to us at the time, just the German government were. Don't for a seconds believe that all wizards worked for him. Some were angry and spiteful, or even just patriotic to fight the British for their country under the rule of the government. The Dark Lord provided an output for the frustration of his followers, allowing them to hunt and kill, but neither he nor his Death Eaters were involved directly in the war, instead tried to assume power while the government was so stretched. Once in power, he may have ended the war by choice. We would never know. Since his motives were not patriotic, it was felt he posed no threat to Britain

"We know so from the accounts of the wizards who planned the idea. They died soon afterwards, and the official records were destroyed, but three of them left diaries in Gringotts with instructions to be released to the head of MLE in the event of the author's death. These accounts - declassified as of last year - tell the whole story of the operation. Remember that at this time, hardly anyone in this country had heard the Dark Lord's name. The upper ranks of the Ministry were aware, but the public and the lower ranks knew nothing of the Dark Lord from Europe. Hence any rumours that slipped would not cause such an outcry as no one knew who this man was. Those three diaries tell the story of how the British Ministry of Magic recruited and trained the Death Eaters."

"Surely they wouldn't," said Harry, unable to contain himself. "Surely they saw the danger."

"It was war, Potter," said Binns. "Odd decisions are made in times of war."

"But recruiting a Dark Lord…?" asked Harry, unable to fathom the stupidity. Did they not stop to think? A Dark Lord? The clue was in the name? What madness could possibly have driven them to such a man?

"But he wasn't a 'Dark Lord', or at least known to be one at the time," said Binns. "He was just a shadowy character behind the scenes. He was a gangster at best, an Al Capone."

"Still a murderer, though!" said Harry.

"I agree with you," said Binns. "However, it is academic, as it happened over fifty years ago. Then again, similar things have been done recently."

"They have?"

"When the Russians invaded Afghanistan, the Americans recruited a so-called freedom-fighter called Osama Bin Laden," said Binns. "Ten years later, in 1993, that man's organisation planted a bomb in the World Trade Center in New York."

"What changed him?"

"Probably lots of things," said Binns. "He felt betrayed and turned his attention on his former masters, just like You-Know-Who. However, the point is that he did work for us - he was our weapon. We named the targets and he eliminated them. We spread word into the German underworld of an assassin who targeted the Nazis, as a propaganda campaign - a warning for people not to join the war."

"Isn't that a war-crime?"

"All's fair in love and war," said Binns. "He took out many high profile-targets, magical and Muggle. The trouble was that he became too big for his boots. He started killing targets the government did not set. By the time the government realised they had lost control of him, it was too late. In a last-ditch effort, they tried to terminate him. They missed."

"We made him what he is?" concluded Harry.

"Correct," said Binns. "The British trained his army and supplied him with weapons. However, what we didn't know was that when he killed, he inserted his own men in to replace the deceased. He very nearly took control of what was then the most powerful country in Europe. In fact, I believe that had he not been stopped, he would have taken over Germany. Dark Lords are portrayed as bogeymen, but if one thinks about it, they want one thing: power. They are highly intelligent and don't just kill indiscriminately – there is always a plan, always a motive, and we failed to see that until it was too late. He had his plan, and by masterfully inserting key people into key positions, he nearly took out a country without the country even realising it."

Harry realised how familiar this sounded. In the Unholy Land, Voldemort had taken this basic plan, added to it, improved it and damn near succeeded in doing exactly the same a few short weeks ago. In that world, Harry had stopped him, and in Harry's world, Dumbledore had stopped him, but in this one, there had been no one. Or had there? This was another key point he had to understand. What had happened to Dumbledore? Still, he needed to proceed carefully.

"You said he nearly took over the country. Why did he fail?" asked Harry. He already knew the answer, but deliberately avoided using the name or showing any knowledge.

"He failed because of one man," said Binns.

"Just one?" asked Harry, feigning astonishment.

"Albus Dumbledore," proclaimed Binns.

"Who?" asked Harry, managing to conceal the sudden rush of emotion on hearing the name spoken aloud. He felt a wave of remorse as an image of his old headmaster flowed into his mind.

"He was a headmaster here for a short time," answered Binns, "before leaving to go to Europe. In his day, Dumbledore taught Professor Riddle himself."

"Wow," said Harry, raising an eyebrow and trying to look impressed.

"I didn't think you would have heard of him," said Binns. "Although he does have a Chocolate Frog card dedicated to him." Binns shrugged. "Anyway, where was I? Ah, yes. Shortly after the failed assassination attempt on the assassin himself, several members of our own government went missing on British soil. It was clear to the few who knew of the operation that the so-called Master of Assassins had come to Britain. For a year, the deaths continued. Being war time, there was little publicity – death was so common that no one battered an eyelid when someone disappeared. And so the public on the whole knew nothing of his existence."

"Did he not aim to be noticed?"

"Publicity didn't seem to be his goal at this stage," said Binns. "Later, it did, and we will come to that, but at this stage, no, publicity did not seem to be on his agenda. This is, of course, pure speculation, but I believe at the time, he underestimated the fighting spirit of old Blighty."

"He what?" asked Harry.

"I think that he came here to eliminate those who had betrayed him, and then he planned to return to Europe, his home," said Binns. "The evidence for this is the fact that his Death Eaters didn't come with him. He came alone, killing on British soil without assembling an army. I believe it was a personal vendetta. He probably thought it would be over in a week."

"So why did this…Dumbledore get involved?" asked Harry, trying not to appear as desperate for information as he felt.

"We cannot say," said Binns. "As a Headmaster, though only for two years at the time he left, Dumbledore kept his distance from the Ministry. He was completely uninvolved in the war, but then, for no apparent reason, he joined the hunt. He interrupted the assassin trying to murder a member of the team who organised his operation, in fact that last member of that team. They duelled and the assassin fled. Dumbledore tracked him all over Europe, until he eventually found him in the palace of Versailles a year later."

Harry remembered Dumbledore having spoken about Versailles and his duel there. So in this world, the result of that duel had changed the world. Harry shook his head in remorse.

"Dumbledore's body was found by Professor Riddle in early 1945," said Binns, "Although, he was not Professor Riddle at that time. He did not rejoin the school until later. His first act was to lay Dumbledore to rest at Parkside. Soon after, the war came to an end."

"What happened to the assassin?" asked Harry. This was long before Katie had been born, so something else must have happened.

"He disappeared," said Binns. "Now at this point, Potter, we leave the bounds of what we know. Documents exist which support what I have told you so far. From here, we enter a grey area, where all I can tell you is guesswork based on circumstantial evidence."

"I understand, sir," said Harry. He needed to get Binns to continue, though, and flattery seemed the best option. "But please, do go on. You seem to know it all and I find it all fascinating." Harry saw a small smile creep over the ghost's face for a second before disappearing.

"Before we go on," said Binns, "would you like a cup of tea?" Harry was taken aback. Binns seemed to be enjoying himself now and instead of being a tedious Q and A session, he seemed to be thinking that they would make an afternoon of it, and have a nice little debate.

_Historians, honestly,_ thought Harry. However, manners were the way through which he would convince Binns to continue.

"Thank you, sir," he said, nodding. Binns floated over the fire and summoned a House Elf, who appeared a moment later carrying a silver tray topped with tea and a plate of biscuits. But it wasn't the chocolate biscuits that grabbed Harry's attention, nor the fine china. It was the large pile of knitted hats the elf wore.

"Dobby?" said Harry before he could stop himself.

The elf squawked at the mention of his name, wobbling slightly. The china rattled, but the elf kept his balance and set the tray down.

"Sir knows Dobby, sir?" squeaked the elf. Harry couldn't help but grin as Dobby stared up at his with his tennis-ball eyes. Of course he didn't know Harry here, but no matter. Harry wouldn't be calling on him or placing him in danger. Also, Harry would not be the subject of Dobby's attempts to 'help', which usually ended up with Harry being in hospital. Oh well, that was Katie's problem here, not his.

"I've heard of you," said Harry. "Katie often talks about you."

Dobby's tennis ball eyes widened and then began to glisten with tears. "Katie Bells talks about Dobby, sir?" he stammered, his squeaky voice wobbling.

"Err…" said Harry, realising his big mouth had caused him to let more slip that he should have. What if Dobby went to Katie to say thanks? She would know he had been here with Binns, she would know that he knew a lot about her past.

"She's mentioned you," Harry said carefully, trying not to commit to anything. Dobby took off his hats, presumably as a mark of respect, his eyes filling up and his lip wobbling. It was more than the elf could take and he disappeared with a pop.

_Oops,_ thought Harry,

Binns seemed not to notice anything odd, and waited patiently while Harry poured himself a cup of tea. He dunked a biscuit and then turned his attention back to the ghost, who seemed to be eager to go on. Professional vanity, Harry guessed.

"Where did we get to?" asked Binns, though Harry had a feeling he already knew. He was testing to see if Harry had been paying attention.

"He had just killed Dumbledore and disappeared," said Harry, sipping his tea.

"Right," said Binns. "No one knows for sure where he went or what he did at this point."

_Great,_ thought Harry. Binns had softened him up and given him tea, just to tell him that he didn't know. This wasn't going to be as helpful as he had thought. However, Binns was not finished.

"Even his followers in the German social elite - those who had escaped jail - heard nothing from him," continued the professor, with more energy in his voice than Harry had ever heard. "Even during his reign of terror in England, he issued orders to those in Berlin. Suddenly the orders stopped. He just vanished."

"He must have gone somewhere," said Harry.

"And he did," said Binns. "Where, though, only he can say. Would you like to guess?"

"Hiding?" suggested Harry.

"But why?" asked Binns. "Having just defeated the man acknowledged as one of, if not the, most powerful men in the country, he then goes into hiding? Why? What did he fear?"

"Good point," noted Harry. "What are your theories?"

"Why would anyone hide?" asked Binns rhetorically. "To protect oneself; to be safe. Did he fear anyone else? I would say no, unless he was in a weakened state."

Harry felt a burst of pride in Dumbledore.

"One of the most popular theories was that he had been wounded to such an extent that he was barely alive," said Binns. "There were, of course, suggestions that he didn't walk out of that room. Someone perhaps carried him. Some said he was dead, others that he was biding his time. In truth, no one knew what to think and so the few people left in this country who knew about the operation buried the story, buried the legend of the assassin. As for the assassin himself, we do not know.

"One problem with magical forensics is that magic often leaves little physical sign. Were a Muggle forensic team to look at a location and see lots of blood, they would assume he had lost so much blood that he must have died; whereas wizards know that potions can restore blood quickly. It is not an accurate measure. The signatures of spells were all over the building, but we do not know which spells hit the target and which were blocked. Only those that hit the building itself left traceable magic. We know it was an epic duel and that many rare and powerful spells were used, but we do not know what state the Master of Assassins was in when he left. Later rumours would say that he spent two years just recovering fully from his wounds," said Binns in conclusion.

"Two years? What could Dumbledore have done?"

"There are many long-lasting spells and curses," said Binns. "Many take a long time to recover, even with medicine. Also, lying in bed does nothing for your fitness, nor your power. Once he was better, he would need to recover his strength."

"Still," said Harry. "Two years seems a long time."

"It does," said Binns. "However, once he was fit again, he still did not make a return. In fact, not a peep was heard until the late sixties. It was around 1964-65 that the disappearances started."

"So where was he in the meantime?" asked Harry.

"Supposedly he travelled far and wide, experiencing all forms of magic in all different cultures," said Binns. "Of course, this was the propaganda spread amongst the Death Eaters: The Dark Lord knows every form of magic, his travels taught him everything, his knowledge of magic runs deeper than any man. You can imagine how impressive it sounds, but the validity of it I cannot say. There are rumours that he was deep in study, working for years to try and find the key to that which has eluded men since the dawn of time."

"Immortality," said Harry, reading his mind. It made sense, for Voldemort too had sought that secret.

"Indeed," said Binns, clearly enjoying himself. "Some say that he promised himself that never again would he come so close to dying, to succumbing to that human weakness of death. He knew that magic must hold the secret to it, and so he began his travels. He reportedly travelled far and wide. The fifties were quiet, and most people in the government thought he was dead. Remember that few people knew who or what he was at this point, just those in the darker corridors of power. Most of whom had retired by this time. The Assassin became an urban legend.

"Hence, when the disappearances started in the mid to late sixties, Britain was completely unprepared. It took another three years before someone realised that these were related cases. Former government ministers disappeared as the Dark Lord - as he had now become known - began removing anyone who knew of his past. There was a fire in the Ministry archives destroying the paper trail that says who he really was. The only reason I know was from privately kept records of Ministry employees. These became very valuable after the fire. Rumours came from Europe of a Dark Wizard coming to power on British soil. Remember, he blamed the British government for making and then trying to break him. He appeared in all his glory in the late sixties."

"What do you mean, 'all his glory'?" asked Harry.

"Remember when I said that publicity was not on his agenda the first time around?" asked Binns. Harry nodded. "This time it was."

"But he'd have been…what…fifty?" asked Harry.

"Don't mistake age for lack of power," said Binns. "Many of the teachers here are older than they appear. Magic does not wither with age, and can sustain a body, preserving its youthful strength if needs be. Magic slows the aging process anyway. Wizards often live to over one-hundred and twenty, if not one hundred and fifty years old, Madam Marchbanks for instance."

On reflection, if Dumbledore was a teacher at the time Riddle opened the Chamber of Secrets, he had to be at least eighty. After his duel with Voldemort that Harry had witnessed in the Ministry last year, he has seen that age had not withered Dumbledore's power. Old as he was, Grindelwald had still been a powerful foe.

"It started with whisperings in the underworld," Binns continued as Harry returned his gaze to the ghost. "A recruitment drive, if you will, but it soon grew. Conspiracy buffs and dodgy newspapers soon started printing stories, and all the while disappearances were becoming more common. Then at last came his moment. During the Quidditch World Cup of 1968, he and his Death Eaters stormed the stadium. For the first time, the country saw the Dark Mark. The Minister of Magic was beheaded in front of the nation. It was a message - no one was above his reach."

"Jesus!" breathed Harry. He couldn't help but think that it was a parody of what he had done. He had beheaded the Minister in front of a nation as a sign. This man was a monster, but that implied that Harry was too.

"Most people didn't know about his past," continued Binns, not noticing that Harry had paled. "They only knew about his current wave of attacks. Over the next five years, the pureblood elite flocked to him in droves. We don't know if he genuinely believed in the purity of blood or if he was just using them, but they flocked to him, becoming the new generation of Death Eaters. Dark times, Potter, dark times - you didn't know who to trust. Professor Riddle, following in his mentor's footsteps, worked tirelessly against the Dark Lord, but nothing could stem his terrorist campaign."

"Terrorism?" asked Harry. "He abandoned his subtle methods?"

"Yes," said Binns. "Do you know what the nature of terrorism is?"

"To kill people?"

"No, that is a method, not the principle," said Binns, clearly enjoying Harry's struggle to find the words.

"To shock people?" he suggested.

"Not quite," said Binns. "The clue is in the name."

"To terrorise," said Harry, not seeing the distinction.

"Exactly, to scare people, to remove the infallibility and credibility of the establishment," said Binns. "To begin with, he wanted to take over the German government but keep the infrastructure intact. This time, his goal had changed. He wasn't out to rule this country, but to destroy those who had betrayed him. He sought one thing – the complete destruction of the British government; both the monarchy and the Ministry of Magic. Remember, he was no story-book villain, bent on destroying for no reason. He wanted to destroy the system of power in this country, and then presumably return to mainland Europe, safe in the knowledge that he had defeated the enemy who made him."

He paused as Harry took a moment to digest that.

"His attacks were designed to cripple this country's ability to function," continued Binns. "He attacked every walk of life. Some attacks were done for show with mass casualties, others were high-profile assassinations, both Magical and Muggle."

"It he was killing specific Muggles, how did the Ministry keep the Muggles from finding us?" asked Harry. If the Dark Lord was knocking off high-profile Muggles as well, surely they would notice. They were not stupid.

"We had a scapegoat," said Binns. "Ilych Ramirez Sanchez."

"Who?"

"Venezuelan terrorist," said Binns. "Nicknamed Carlos the Jackal."

"I've heard of him," said Harry. "He was caught, wasn't he?"

"After twenty-five years, yes," said Binns. "In fact if you look at his career, it shows both luck and incompetence. It shows impulsiveness and rash decisions. He was not the great assassin he was rumoured to be, but rather clumsy and rash. As a result he was caught in Syria and was handed over to the French in 1994. He did have a few unusual _high points_ in his career, the murder of Joseph Sieff in London, for example."

"Who?" asked Harry.

"Joseph Sieff," said Binns, "Vice president of the British Zionist Federation. He was also a wizard and the owner of a few rather special government accounts at Gringotts, accounts so special he was given a security details of Aurors twenty-four hours a day. Do you still believe that he was killed by a Muggle, or that a team of Aurors would be overcome by a man at the door with a gun?"

Harry shook his head.

"Carlos took the rap for his murders," said Binns. "Our world remained hidden, and the Dark Lord remained at large, plotting and scheming."

"We spent so long cleaning up after him, we didn't have the resources to stop him," said Harry, remembering what had happened in the Unholy Land.

"True," said Binns. "He kept on killing, apparently unstoppable. People were terrified. The more Aurors clamped down on people, searching for Death Eaters, the more fear and terrorthey created, inadvertently fuelling his influence. This only fuelled his recruitment. People turned to him in fear. Since he hated anything British, I can only wonder if he had planned to dispose of them all if he was ever successful. Fortunately, he never was. It seemed he would be, until one night."

"Katie Bell," said Harry.

"Yes," said Binns. "After all the hundreds he had killed, after over a decade of terror from 1968 - 1980, it only took one little baby girl. No one knows why she survived, but she did and his power broke."

"What happened to him?" asked Harry, playing dumb.

"No one knows," said Binns. "All that matters is that he is gone."

"For the second time," said Harry to himself. Once he had gone travelling for nearly twenty years, the other he fell to Katie. But then again, in his world, Voldemort had returned. Could Grindelwald do the same?

"Are we one hundred percent sure he is gone?" asked Harry, unable to think of a subtler way to phrase it.

"As I have said," said Binns, "I am a historian and I deal with fact, not truth, and definitely not rumour and superstition. Some people say he is out there, some say that he is dead, and some people even claim to have seen him shopping for groceries in Sainsbury's. This is hysteria, and it would be stupid to accept this as truth. Since he has gone, there have been no great attacks, and no sign of the Death Eaters."

"So he hasn't risen from the dead?" asked Harry, hoping that history would not have repeated itself.

"No," said Binns. "Well, you will always find people willing to say he has; nutcases, mainly. However, when we look at the facts, not a squeak has been heard in years. We have no proof of his resurrection, but the ramblings of lunatics."

Harry was dubious, but knew that it didn't really affect him. If Grindelwald did have a Horcrux and had survived that night, he could potentially come back. However, the lack of security in the school suggested that this was not the case. Also, there were no signs of him, and no atmosphere of fear. Harry had not seen anything unusual in the _Prophet,_ and there seemed to be no cause for alarm.

Even if Grindelwald did rise again, he wouldn't come after poor, innocent Harry Potter. Harry was safe, and that was what mattered. He was not involved, and had no reason to fear. If Grindelwald ever came back, Harry would be long gone.

"Well, that's good to know," said Harry. "I can remember being told certain parts of that story. I think it helped my memory. Thanks."

"You are most welcome, my boy," said Binns. He seemed rather disappointed that it was over.

Thinking along the same lines, Harry racked his brains for any other questions. This was his best chance to get information. A return visit would show unusual interest, and he didn't want to be labelled a Dark Wizard. It was a little too close to the truth.

Suddenly a thought occurred to him. There was no subtle way to ask, so he may as well try.

"You said that when he went travelling, he was deep in study, searching for the path to immortality?" began Harry, but Binns cut him off.

"No," said the professor sharply. "I said he was rumoured to have gone travelling. All we know is that he disappeared. It is one of the more sound rumours, but there is no proof."

"Sorry," muttered Harry. "Okay, so let's assume that that rumour is true and that he was studying. Do we know if he succeeded?"

Binns took a deep breath and sighed - not that he needed to breathe. Harry realised that it was rather rude to talk to a ghost about avoiding death, but Harry didn't let it bother him.

"At the time of his reign of terror," said Binns carefully, "The Death Eaters would have said yes. We accept as fact that he learned a lot of dark magic, hence the slight physical transformation I mentioned earlier. However, this may be propaganda. You must understand that I cannot comment with any degree of accuracy or fact."

"Can't or won't?" asked Harry. He could see that Binns was uneasy. Harry could spot a liar at ten paces, even without Legilimency.

"I suppose that since he's dead and gone, it can't hurt," said Binns. "Although Professor Slughorn knows more than I do."

"About what?"

"How much do you know about immortality?" asked Binns. Harry opened his mouth to comment, but then closed it. He would arouse suspicion if he told Binns everything. As it was, Harry knew of two ways: the Philosopher's Stone and a Horcrux.

"Well, I've heard of the fountain of youth," said Harry lamely. Binns shot him a look that said 'what have I told you about believing rumours and legends?'

Harry couldn't blush on demand, so he just tried to look stupid. Some would say it came naturally to him, but at that moment he found it quite hard.

"The only known way is through the use of a Philosopher's Stone," said Binns. "However, there are none in existence at this time. In addition, you have to regularly use it."

"So he made one?" asked Harry.

"I cannot say," said Binns. "Rumour suggests that he did not like this option, presumably because he would be dependent on the stone. Rumour also suggests that he invented something, a piece of magic so dark that no book in this castle will dare speak of it. Whatever it was allegedly meant that he could never be killed."

_A Horcrux,_ thought Harry. _Grindelwald invented the Horcrux._

"Apparently he started his research during his time in Germany," said Binns. "The confessions at Nuremburg tell us that he spent a lot of time studying. It would appear that he was forced to put this research on hold once Dumbledore got involved. It seems that after the Dark Lord had come so close to dying, he returned to this research, knowing how precious life was. If it is true, it must have taken him nearly twenty years to get whatever spell it was to work."

Could it be that Grindelwald had invented the damn things? Had Voldemort come across his notes and continued the study during his time out? Did Riddle have the secret here inside this very castle?

"Of course, we know the rumour is not true," said Binns, laughing at Harry's concerned face.

"What?" said Harry. "Why?"

"Because," said Binns, "if he had invented something that stopped him from dying, Kathryn Bell would not have been able to kill him." Binns chuckled softly. "Though it is an intriguing story, and it had you hooked, didn't it, Potter?"

"Yes, sir," said Harry, irritate more at the professor's attitude than at being tricked. He knew that the joke was on the professor, because Horcruxes did exist, and if Harry's suspicions were correct, in a few years, Grindelwald would rise again. Then Binns would be laughing on the other side of his ghostly little face!

Harry took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. There was another question he needed to ask.

"You said he might not have really cared about purity of blood?" asked Harry, his tone calm.

"He may have done, he may not," said Binns, shrugging. "He provided an outlet for his followers to vent their rage, remember? They hated the Muggleborn community, but that does not mean he did. As long as they served a purpose, he allowed it. In the end, if he was planning on returning to the continent, what did he really have planned for Britain after his victory?"

Harry thought about it for a second. He had no idea, but he certainly had been given a lot to think about.

"Thank you for your time, professor," said Harry, rising to his feet. He had gotten what he needed, and if Binns was making jokes, then it was definitely time to leave. Nothing else useful would come of this meeting.

"You are welcome," said Binns, rising. "It's good to see you again, Mister Potter. If you fancy another little debate, you are always welcome."

"Thanks," said Harry, opening the door to the classroom. "Bye, professor," he added before disappearing out into the corridor.

As he walked back towards the Tower, he replayed the conversation over in his head. So, Grindelwald was most likely still alive. He had beaten Dumbledore, not the other way around, but Dumbledore must have had some effect. Dumbledore scared him so much that he spent years recovering, then spent nearly fifteen more years researching the path to immortality. He invented the Horcrux and then went on to try and kill Katie.

It seemed that this world was similar in some ways. There was a Girl Who Lived and there had been a Dark Lord.

However, Harry remembered, Flamel had said that even the tiniest change could have a major effect on the universe. Just because there was a Dark Lord and there was a Girl Who Lived didn't mean that the worlds were the same. Grindelwald and Voldemort were two different people with different ideas, beliefs, means and motives. Binns had confirmed this – Grindelwald was here to destroy the British government, not to rule it, a stark contrast to Voldemort. Presumably, once he had won, he would have returned to Germany to try and rule there.

All this would have made Grindelwald a more deadly opponent that Voldemort. Riddle had wanted to rule, so he needed to preserve the basic infrastructure of the country, hence, he had inserted people into existing rules. Grindelwald had wanted to destroy, meaning that he would not exercise restraint. Civilians were legitimate targets, though probably not the best phrase to use. He sought to bring the government down, plunge the country that had made and then betrayed him into chaos. Harry was glad he wouldn't be around to see it.

Harry found no reason not to take it on faith that Binns had been right about Grindelwald being gone – if he was gone permanently, or if there was a Horcrux out there, waiting to be activated, Harry didn't know, and, he realised, ultimately didn't care. In this world, he was not the Boy Who Lived and so he had no obligation here. He had tried not to get involved in the Unholy Land, but he had constantly been targeted. Here, he was nobody; he was completely unrelated to the conflict. Even if, by some remote possibility, Grindelwald was still alive, and even if he managed to get the necessary ingredients to be able to return from the dead, he wouldn't come after Harry. He may come back in the future, but Harry was not in danger, and would hopefully be long gone before he managed it. For now, for the next month or so that he would spend here, Grindelwald was for all intents and purposes gone, dead, finished, finito, all done. Harry breathed a sigh of relief.

He had confirmed it – he was not in danger, he was not needed. That gave him time and space to find a way home, something he needed to start on right away. It was time to head to the restricted section of the library. He could do that tomorrow. It was quiet on Sundays, especially since lessons hadn't started yet. He could flame in and nick a book before the old bat even realised he was there.

The next evening, Harry headed up to the library shortly before dinner. He had about an hour until the rest of the students arrived. He wasn't stupid enough to flame to the library directly, in case there was someone there, someone who might see him reappear. He wanted to make sure that no one saw him.

Harry slipped into the library and found the place deserted. It was in darkness, as the sun had disappeared behind the hills, even though it was only just past four in the afternoon. The room was in shadow, the only light coming from under the door to Pince's office. Harry tiptoed across the wooden floor in the direction of the restricted section.

Checking that the coast was clear, Harry slipped in amongst the shelves, not bothering to flame as there was no one around to see him. He lit a faint light at the end of his wand and began to read the titles. Most of them he passed over as being irrelevant, but every now and then he came to one that looked promising. He pulled the book off the shelves and opened it to the contents page. Sliding a finger down the list of contents, his eyes scanned for a few key words.

Harry spent half an hour searching before he found a book that contained a section that was relevant. Harry slipped the book up his oversized jumper and tiptoed out of the library, easing the door closed. Harry grimaced as the door creaked for the last inch as he released the handle.

Harry paused for a second, listening. The only sound he heard was his own heart thumping in his chest and his own breathing. It seemed that Pince hadn't heard. Phew!

Harry breathed a sigh of relief and turned to leave.

"'ello, Potter."

Harry jumped out of his skin as he turned straight into the greasy face of Argus Filch. The man stood not a foot from him, his yellow eyes glaring at Harry. He held a lantern in one hand and a stick in the other. Mrs Norris was standing between his legs, staring up at him; her harsh feline eyes seemed to glare as well.

"Er…" said Harry. "Hello?"

"Think you're funny, boy?" asked Filch, his eyes searching for any sign of a troublemaking. Harry knew he had been caught red-handed stealing a book from the library without signing it out. He hadn't wanted to leave a paper trail, and he also knew that he was not even supposed to have this book. His stomach appeared much bigger than normal thanks to the book up his jumper. Still, the other Harry was expected to be fatter than he was. Hopefully Filch wouldn't notice. He wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer.

"Not as such," said Harry, not sure if he should offer an excuse, or even what he had been accused of.

"What are you doing in the library?" Filch asked, his eyes scanning Harry for any evidence of wrong-doing.

"What do most people do in the library?" asked Harry before he had a chance to think. He was tempted to ask Filch if he could read, but decided against it. He realised after he had made his first retort that he was supposed to be playing down his character, and arguing with Filch wasn't going to help.

"Now look here, Potter," said Filch. "I can smell trouble from a mile away. I just know you are up to something, boy, and this year I can do something about it."

"Really?" said Harry, used to Filch's threats. Filch couldn't do anything more than refer him to McGonagall.

"Oh yes, Potter," said Filch. "Only been back in the castle for a week and already caught my eye."

"Everyone comes back tonight," said Harry.

"Yes," said Filch, a glimmer of panic and then lust in his eyes. Like a hunter before the hunt, he looked manic. "Bringing Dungbombs, and Fizzing Whizzbees and Merlin knows what else. They think the banned items list is a catalogue."

"Heaven forbid," said Harry, trying not to laugh.

"Must prepare," said Filch to himself. "I'll catch 'em before they even get to the feast. Let them know I mean business, make examples." Harry had no idea what Filch was on about, and he didn't believe for a second that this power trip would last.

"Well, good luck with that," said Harry, turning to leave. "Hope you get them."

"Oh, I will," said Filch, a manic look of desire on his face. Harry walked quickly away and around the corner. Christ, everyone in this world was as mad as a brush. Not wanting to get into any more pointless conversations, Harry headed quickly to the kitchens to grab a baguette and then headed back up to the Tower to start reading. He had an hour before the feast, but he was starving. It wasn't as if the elves would be offended if he didn't clear his plate.

The common room was not empty, but there were so few people that he had plenty of choice of where to sit. He took an armchair in the corner by the window, from which he could see the room, as well as anyone who entered. He also had his back to the wall, so no one could read over his shoulder. He didn't fancy explaining to people what he was doing reading a book about Ancient Greek Dark and Experimental Magic. The disadvantage of his position was that he was a long way from the fire. Harry kicked off his shoes and pulled his feet up, sitting cross-legged on the armchair, his cloak pulled around him. He opened and book and flicked to the contents page.

Looking down the list, the areas were certainly experimental, and by the sound of it mostly dark. He made a note to conceal the book from prying eyes. If it was found in his possession, he would face awkward questions, as if the Girl-Who-Lived wasn't suspicious enough already. After tonight, with the rest of the students back, he would only be able to read after dark, in his bed with the curtains pulled and charmed. Still, as least Riddle and McGonagall would be too busy to keep an eye on him.

Harry looked down the contents page. The list covered such wonderful topics as human to animal transplants, the uses of human hearts, and the advantages of cannibalism. The trouble with something that grim is it sparks a morbid curiosity, and Harry was famed for his curiosity. It took a great deal of effort not to turn to that page. Keeping his mind focussed on the job at hand, Harry turned to chapter seventeen, entitled Space and Time. He tapped the entry in the contents with his wand and the pages suddenly began to turn in quick succession, as if a strong wind was blowing them. Two seconds later, Harry was staring at page four hundred and thirty seven, the beginning of the space and time chapter. The title was written in black, though it had faded to green over the years. The bold letters were followed by an image of sundial against a starry night.

"Space and Time," muttered Harry. "Very artistic."

The first paragraph was an introduction, explaining the basic philosophy of time. It mentioned Socrates' specks of dust falling through the hands of time, and other Greek philosophers of the time. Harry didn't need to read these metaphors, or the ramblings of the great thinkers magical and Muggle of 5000 years ago. After a few sentences, Harry began to skim, rather than read. He got the gist of the words, but didn't read properly. It was all rubbish about 'what is time'. On the next page was an explanation of time and space.

The book explained that a person can move in time, without moving space and vice versa. A person can be seen to disappear by moving in time, when they haven't really moved, not as we understand the word, at least'. It was all about perceptions, and caused Harry's head to spin. On the third page, he found something more useful. It was an explanation of the Multiverse. It explained how there are other worlds in parallel with our own. It took three pages, complete with diagrams, to convey the entire theory, and that was just the introduction. Harry read it carefully, trying to take in as much of the theory as possible. It wasn't until he got to the final paragraph that he found a reference to travelling.

_Travelling between universes is highly dangerous. Without such travel, the existence of the Multiverse cannot be proved, and will remain just a theory. However, the dangers associated with such travel are so severe that it raises the questions of whether proving the existence of something that cannot possibly affect this world is worth risking destroying it. Would the knowledge gained be worth the risk? Nature exists all around us in a delicate balance. Forcing a rift in the fabric from which nature is made could have a catastrophic effect on the worlds involved. It is this danger that has forced mankind not to pursue this course of travel. Before further research can be carried out, a safe way to travel must be developed, one that does harm the fabric of space._

Harry looked up. The book wasn't going to tell him any more about it. It was clearly not a common area of magic, nor a well known one. However, there must be a book somewhere, for two reasons: a, Flamel had found one, and b, they had found a safe way to travel – using the Node. Therefore, someone did research, someone built the Node and so someone had to know. However, if it were law that this was not to be pursued as it was too dangerous, then a law-breaker would have done it. This was something to be found in Dark books, not Light ones. Harry closed the book and rose to his feet. He would need to have a closer look in the restricted section.

For the next ten minutes, Harry skimmed the next few pages. Most of it used such long words that it might as well have been in Greek. This was not going to be easy, and none of what he could understand seemed to relate to him. Maybe finding this information wouldn't be as easy as he had expected. He may have over-simplified things. So much for his great plan.

No, that wasn't right. The plan was good; it would just take more time. The plan would still go ahead, but a fortnight to a month may have been a little hopeful. However, he would make the effort, and hopefully get a breakthrough.

_BOOM!_

There was a deep boom outside, and Harry felt a distant rumble. He spun around instantly, looking for the source. Harry dove across the room, heading for the window. He threw it open and peered out. Smoke was rising from a valley in the trees on the far side of the lake. Harry knew only too well what was down there. Hogsmeade, or more specifically, the train station. The Hogwarts Express was under attack.

Harry dropped the book and rose to his feet. He was about to flame to the train when he paused. This was not his fight, or his world. He wouldn't be here long. Did it matter if he did nothing? The Aurors could handle the Death Eaters. They didn't need him. All it would do would be to draw more attention to him, and that was just what he didn't want to do. He needed to keep his head down and weather his time here. Then again, he didn't know how long he would be here. Still, the point remained that he needed to keep out of the spotlight, and he needed to put his full efforts into leaving.

Even if that meant sacrificing students? Innocents? It was a moral dilemma. Could he stand here and do nothing? Could he let Death Eaters kill people and not care? Hang on, Death Eaters? The Dark Lord hadn't risen from the dead yet, so how could there be attacks? Was this really the Death Eaters? Was Grindelwald already back?

Suddenly, a piercing scream rang out over the forest. Harry scarcely heard it, but it still struck him. It was the sound of terror. Someone needed help. He remembered the last time he was on the train, the panic, the trolley witch, whom he had ordered killed. Harry shivered at the memory.

The image only served to reinforce his first instinct. Harry had made up his mind. He sprinted up the stairs into the boy's dormitory, which thankfully was deserted. He ran to his bed and threw open the trunk that lay underneath it. He threw the book in and pulled out a plain black sock. Using his wand, he enlarged it and cut a hole in the side. He pulled his new balaclava over his head. The window was still open, and Harry felt a chill as he stood back up. Taking a deep breath, Harry ran for the window. He jumped, diving head-first through the window and out into the night.

The air was cold and crisp, and the wind whipped against his clothes as he began to fall. Harry plummeted head first towards the ground, which rose quickly to meet him. Concentrating hard, Harry felt his limbs begin to change. Skin became feathers, toes became claws, and the phoenix took over.

Spreading his wings, Harry pulled out of the dive, gliding over the forest towards the smoke.

Help was on its way.

XxXxX

The tops of the pine trees skimmed beneath his claws as Harry glided over the trees. He could see the column of smoke rising from the station as he neared. The smell of burning filled his nostrils. Harry was aware that he couldn't just appear in the middle of the fray, lest he be attacked by his own side. He swooped down into the forest, coming to a stop fifty metres inside the wood. He turned back into human form a few feet from the ground, dropping and then rolling to protect his legs. Harry stood up, his balaclava protecting him from being seen, and more importantly identified. Harry withdrew his wand as he crept quickly and quietly closer to the orange glow that was lighting the station. As the trees thinned, he could see the station. The explosion had not happened in the train or near it, but in a clearing on the far side of the track. It was an area of muddy grass where no one went, as far as Harry knew. The train was loaded from the near side, not the side where the explosion had happened.

_Who wastes time blowing up nothing?_ he wondered briefly.

Harry could see the students in the windows of the train, terrified looks on their faces. The adults on the platform - the station staff and a few commuters from Hogsmeade - were panicking. They were running around like headless chickens, back and forth; no one was sure of who was in control, what was happening, or what to do. There were no teachers to collect the first years, as they went with everyone else in the carriages after Christmas. As such, there was no one in authority here, as far as Harry could see.

To his right, the carriages were waiting, nearly one hundred metres from where the train had stopped. Harry could see the thestrals ready to go, clearly uneasy at the explosion and subsequent fire. It was then that Harry realised that there was something missing.

_Where are the Death Eaters?_ wondered Harry. Where were the bad guys? This was their standard approach - the bang to disorientate people, then a mass strike. Where the hell were they? Binns had said that the Dark Lord had gone for good. It seemed that might not be so. Then again, this didn't need to be Grindelwald. Maybe Harry was just paranoid and this wasn't the work of the Dark Lord. This was something different – it lacked the swift execution and numbers of the Dark Lord. If he were behind it, there would be white masks everywhere. Anyhow, Harry could investigate motive and perpetrator later. For now, he had to get the students out.

Harry also realised that he couldn't be seen, else he would look like the assailant, dressed all in black and skulking around. Until the Death Eaters, or whoever was behind this, moved, he was stuck. Suddenly a station worker ran towards the train. Finally, one of them had pulled themselves together. Harry had been considering shattering the windows with his wand.

Seconds later the doors of the train opened and students began to spill out, running for the carriages. It was pandemonium. A flood of people in black cloaks were running everywhere in panic, screaming, calling for friends, trying to escape.

Suddenly Harry realised what was about to happen. This was a distraction. Anyone could slip in amongst the students now. In the chaos, who would notice an extra person in the fray, or even one too few? Harry turned and glanced around the edges of the station, looking for anything out of place.

There were two people cowering behind a bench. Threat? Minimal – an old couple and their dog. Too frail to act and too far away. Station staff? Harry counted four, all of whom were shouting for the students to run. Threat? Minimal - they seemed to be helping. The man in navy blue robes by the trees? Threat? Possible, but he had a suitcase and looked ready to travel.

_Snap!_

Something moved between the trees behind Harry. Harry ducked into the shadows and turned to face the sound. He stood still, staring into the darkness, his eyes desperately scanning for any sign of movement, his ears pricked for any sound. There was nothing but the sound of the students running and screaming. This was what whoever this was wanted.

Being careful of the roots, Harry made his way quickly but silently deeper into the woods, in the direction he was sure the sound had come from.

Silence. Harry paused, trying to get his bearings in the darkness. His night-vision was improving, but he couldn't see the figure. He cocked his head to listen. He was so far from the station what he could not longer hear the commotion. The only thing that Harry could hear was his own pounding heart.

Suddenly something moved in the darkness, rustling in the icy leaves. Harry froze, his eyes scanning between the trees. The movement of the branches in the wind caused the shadows cast by the lights of the station to dancing, making it seem like there was movement all around him. Harry silently drew his wand.

A shiver ran down his spine. It was like a horror film, as he stood, back to a dying tree in a dark woods in the middle of the night. He knew someone was here, but now where were they?

_Crack!_

He heard it again. Harry whipped his head around to have a look. There!

He saw a movement amongst the trees, a figure in black. Taking care where he put his feet down, making sure to move in utter silence, hardly daring to breathe, Harry moved slowly closer.

As he neared he realised what he was seeing. A man in black, wearing a balaclava - just like Harry's although probably not made from a sock - appeared among the trees, carrying something large and straight over his shoulder. As Harry drew closer, he realised what it was the man was carrying. It was a student, a girl, under the Petrificus Charm, stiff as a board and hoisted over his shoulder. This had been a kidnapping from the start. This wasn't the Death Eaters, just a maniac trying to kidnap a girl. Admittedly, he was a clever maniac; probably an ex-Auror, given the cunning nature of the operation - create mayhem and then disappear into the shadows.

The man walked as quickly as he could with his baggage away from the mayhem and into the woods. He was approaching from Harry's right. Harry stood against a tree, hopefully concealed by the shadows. It was a large tree, meaning that the roots raised the ground. Harry was a few feet higher than the man, and not in his line of sight.

As the man took another step, he moved into a patch of moonlight. Harry cast an appraising stare at the man. He was quite tall and thin, though he appeared muscular. He was cautious, and his movements were catlike. He made next to no sound as he moved. He was dressed all in black, with no cloak, nothing to flap in the wind lest the movement give away his position. His balaclava covered his face, leaving visible only a pair of dark eyes.

Harry took a step closer.

_EEK!_

A fox bolted out of the recess in which Harry had tried to step. The animal streaked out of its hole, spraying crisp icy leaves in all directions as it darted into the clearing and then off into the shadows. Unfortunately, it had alerted the kidnapper to his presence.

The man's wand ignited, straight at Harry, framing him in a spotlight and crippling his night vision. Coloured blobs appeared all over his vision, blinding him in an instant.

"_AVADA…" _

Harry threw himself blindly to the side as the kidnapper finished the spell. He felt the chill as the curse narrowly passed his body, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end. Harry landed painfully, the gnarled roots digging painfully into his ribs and leg as he landed. He rolled as best he could in an effort to get out of range.

Harry rolled into cover behind a tree and scrambled to his feet. The woods were still around him, and not a sound was in the air. Harry tried to calm his breathing and heart rate so he could hear. The kidnapper had destroyed his night vision, meaning he could hardly see a thing, while the man still had perfect night vision.

Harry peeked out from behind the tree. The darkness was thick and Harry could hardly see five feet in front of him. He ducked back into cover and poked his head out the other side, staring down at where the man had been seconds before.

_Where are you?_ wondered Harry.

His heart pounding, Harry moved quickly between the trees, careful to be as quiet as possible and sticking to the shadows. The kidnapper had seen where he had retreated to, and so he needed to move. Harry ducked behind a nearby tree and peered out.

The figure had put the girl down and disappeared. Harry could see her discarded body lying amongst the roots still unconscious and as stiff as a board. What worried Harry was that her kidnapper was nowhere to be seen. However, Harry wasn't stupid enough to believe he had gone. He waited for nearly a minute in stillness, seeing no sign of movement.

_Maybe he has gone,_ thought Harry. _No, not likely._

It was probably best to try and get the girl out of here. No one knew who he was, so he could risk a quick Flame to get her to safety. Harry stepped nearer, moving into cover behind a tree just one away from where the girl lay. Taking a deep breath, he raised his wand, casting one more look around before he dared move.

He had taken one step around the tree when something grabbed him from behind, grasping the hair on his fringe, yanking his head upwards and exposing his neck, just as he felt a blade press against it.

_Christ!_ He had never heard him coming!

There was a pause before felt a pressure in the small of his back as the man pushed him gently. Harry took the hint and stepped forward, careful to avoid the roots as he moved out into the small clearing. The kidnapper kept his blade tight against Harry's throat and a grip on Harry's hair, guiding him. Harry's heart was pounding as the knife pressed against his jugular; the powerful grip had shifted from his fringe to the back of his neck, meaning he couldn't move his neck away from the blade. In silence, the man marched him forward, keeping the knife pressed against him.

O_kay, Harry, _he thought to himself. _Stay calm, breath, relax. You've been in worse than this before. Just relax. Right, focus. What is around you that you can use?_

Trying to slow his breathing, Harry looked around. There was nothing but the trees, and the helpless girl. Harry was on his own, and his attacker was so strong. Harry felt the hand tighten on his neck, as if the man knew what he was thinking. He glanced around desperately, before remembering what he could do. The man must have felt him tense, for his grip tightened even more, but it did him no good, as Harry was suddenly engulfed in flame and then gone.

As he reappeared, he saw the man gasp in surprise at his now empty hands. Harry raised his wand.

_Stupefy!_

His silent spell left his wand as he jumped out from behind the tree. The man turned instantly, conjuring a shield. As soon as the curse hit, he retaliated with another so quickly that Harry was forced to duck. The curse hit just where his head had been a less than a second ago. He dived to the side to avoid another silent curse, rolling behind a tree and out the other side, muttering his own home-made spell. The ring of blue light appeared on his hand as another curse came towards him. Harry scooped it up and spun to gain momentum before hurling the ring back at the man, his own curse contained inside it.

The man raised a shield but as the curse struck it, the ring disappeared along with the shield with a mighty pop. The man's own curse then ran unimpeded into his stomach. The man growled in pain, falling to one knee.

"It came from over here!" shouted a voice to Harry's right. Both he and the kidnapper looked up to see two figures in robes coming through the trees. Harry turned back to the man just in time to see him Disapparate. Cursing, Harry moved back into the shadows.

"Over here!" shouted one of the robed figures. As he stepped into the moonlight, Harry saw that he was an Auror . "We've got another student."

The two Aurors knelt by the girl. Harry heard one say, "You're safe now" to the girl. She was in good hands, and it was time to get out of here. "Search the area," said one of the Aurors. Harry wasted no time in disappearing in a ball of flames.

He had no idea who the man was, who the girl was or why he wanted her, but whatever the reason was, he was gone and Harry could not be caught. He reappeared on the top of the Astronomy Tower, which was thankfully deserted. He quickly removed the sock from his head, and using his wand he fixed the holes and shrank it. No one would liken a boy with a sock in his pocket to a masked figure in the fight – in fact, no one had even seen his battle with the intruder.

Pocketing the sock, Harry raced back to the castle. Once inside, he turned left and then down the stairs at the end of the passage. He came out on the corridor that led up to the library, but turned towards Gryffindor Tower. Should he bump into anyone, he could say he had been heading up to the library, and feign ignorance of the attack. "Well, I heard a slight rumble, but I thought it was just someone playing exploding snap or something," he rehearsed in his head.

He arrived back in the Tower to find it deserted. He got rid of the sock and then changed into his Hogwarts robes. He used his wand to clean the ash, smoke, dirt, and all other evidence of having been in the forest from his trousers, and then put them in the laundry basket. That done, he cleaned himself up and headed back down towards the hall. He needed to get to the hall, and make it look like he had heard what had happened and was as scared as everyone else.

As he walked, his mind raced. Who was that man? He wasn't a Death Eater, as he had no mask, and this wasn't how Death Eaters operated, if they even still existed. Binns may have been right – the Dark Lord may have gone forever. Death Eaters generally went for massive destruction, mass numbers, and mass loss of life. This was just one man trying to kidnap a girl.

Why would he do that? To kill her? Unlikely, since he had tried to take her alive. Was he a paedophile? Maybe, but unlikely, as it seemed like a targeted kidnap, rather than a random event - he had chosen her. Why? Who was she?

Did it matter? The more Harry thought about it, the more he realised that it was over as far as he was concerned. Aurors would take a statement, she was safe in Hogwarts, the investigation would go ahead at the Ministry. There was no Dark Lord involvement, and even if there was, it wasn't Harry's job to sort it out. He had done more than he had needed to in stopping her kidnap. He had done his part, and now it was over for him.

His own curiosity still had him thinking about the girl as he descended the steps towards the Great Hall, but it was only curiosity. He had no plans to do anything else about it. It was over. Just then he was torn from his thoughts.

"Oh, Mister Potter?" said a sickeningly sweet voice.

Harry's blood went cold, and his stomach clamped tight

Harry froze, his limbs tensing and a thousand vile memories coming to his mind. The back of his hand began to itch at the memory.

It wasn't possible.

Surely not…

Harry turned and found himself looking at Professor Dolores Umbridge.

* * *

**Rowling, J. K., (2006)**_Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince,_ Bloomsbury Books UK LTD, chpt 23, p463 

**_Auror's Notes:_**

_Right, one thing I should really point out. Sorry for such an 'information overload' chapter.Please bear with me – things will start happening next chapter._

_With regards to my brief history of the Nazis, bear in mind this is a work of fiction and I am blending fact with fiction. There is a lot more to it, I am simplifying and mixing it up for my own ends. Following on from that, references to Bin Laden and more recent history again are used to set the fic into context. While I could rant about this for hours, I will not plunge this fic into a political satire. This is not a parody of Bin Laden or anything of the sort._

_Another clear homage of this chapter is the Bourne Identity. I use elements this book as a basis for three of my stories. Here we see the Jackal. If you do a bit of research you will find that he wasn't the legend that Ludlum made him. In fact he was a bit of a muppet. Don't worry, he's not going to appear. It's just a cheeky little wave at Ludlum's trilogy (I don't count the Bourne Legacy)._

_Well, I hope that chapter answered some of your questions. Yes, I know we have not seen Dean and a few others yet, but as stated, it is New Years, they are still at home. Well, actually they are on the train. You will see them next chapter._

_The next chapter can already be viewed on my Yahoo!Group. Yahoo! Search for 'A Stranger in an Unholy Land' and you will find it. _

_J_

**Chapter III - Toads and NEWTs**

**History is repeating itself: an old enemy has returned to Hogwarts. Harry knows what is happening and the horrors to come, but has no desire to live through it again. Meanwhile, Katie continues to battle with her burden, completely unaware that a guardian angel is only a few feet away, if only he could be tempted. As Katie suffers under Umbridge's wrath, Harry once again turns to the Half Blood Prince and a trip to Knockturn Alley moves Harry one step closer to home.**


	3. Toads and NEWTs

History is repeating itself: an old enemy has returned to Hogwarts. Harry knows what is happening and the horrors to come, but has no desire to live through it again. Meanwhile, Katie continues to battle with her burden, completely unaware that a guardian angel is only a few feet away, if only he could be tempted. As Katie suffers under Umbridge's wrath, Harry once again turns to the Half Blood Prince and a trip to Knockturn Alley moves Harry one step closer to home.

_**A Stranger in the Promised Land**_

** Chapter III  
Toads and N.E.W.T.s**

_"God gives man instincts,  
And then, I swear, for his own amusement,  
He sets the rules in opposition.  
It's the goof of all time:  
Look, but don't touch,  
Touch, but don't taste,  
Taste, but don't swallow,  
And while you're jumping from one foot to the next,  
What's he doing?  
Laughing his sick, fucking arse off!"_

_The Devil (Al Pacino) - The Devil's Advocate_

As the old toad approached, Harry could see that she hadn't changed a bit. The sound of her heels echoed off the walls as the whole world seemed to shrink around Harry. It almost seemed that the torches were dimming as she passed. She wore a horrid shade of pink, and her hair was done up in a perm. Her wide, toad-like face was pulled into a forced smile and she carried a clipboard under one arm.

_What the Hell is she doing here?_ Harry wondered. Had Riddle seriously not been able to find a better teacher?

As she approached, Harry gritted his teeth. He felt his body tense all over, almost involuntarily. His fists were clenched and he felt a sudden desire to go for his wand. The back of his hand itched, despite her blood-quill never having touched this particular body. The phantom itch was just another sign of the mental trauma she had put him through. Harry felt an overwhelming desire to curse her. It wasn't often that he felt a genuine longing to hurt someone, but this was certainly one of them. Before he had a chance to do anything stupid, the Dark Knight's cold, calculating logic poured back into his mind.

He knew he had to stay calm, keep a low profile, and go about his business of finding a way home. He mustn't give her any sign that he was a threat. The last thing he needed was a string of detentions that would delay his escape. _Calm yourself, Harry. _

Before Umbridge got close enough to discern his expression, Harry forced himself to relax. His fists unclenched and he wiped the sweat from his palms on his trousers. He needed to appear weaker, so he slouched slightly and let his shoulders droop, and adjusted the glasses he had been wearing since he had returned. They didn't magnify or anything, but gave him the appearance of the old, weak Harry. He shifted his weight between his feet, giving him a nervous shuffle. As Umbridge came to a stop, Harry summoned all his self control, and smiled in the face of a woman who had nearly put the Cruciatus Curse on him. In a small but polite voice he said, "Good evening, Professor Umbridge."

"You know who I am?" she asked, her smile wavering and a frown taking its place. Her voice was as shrill and girly as the last time they had spoken, and the frown contorted her face so that she looked like she was about to belch.

Harry cursed his stupidity, but managed to hide his panic from his face. He needed to be more careful about what he said. Proving too knowledgeable made people suspicious, and the whole idea of this conversation was to keep a low profile. "The other students told me," he recovered quickly. "They explained what a High Inquisitor does."

"Excellent," said Umbridge, her smile returning and her voice becoming needlessly high in that sick manner that Harry knew too well. At least he was off the hook about knowing more than he should. However, her tone told him that she was trying to be nice, which probably meant that she was about to make an offer or a threat. She beamed down at him in her toad-like manner. "That's wonderful, my dear. It saves me having to explain everything. Do you have any questions, Mr Potter?"

Harry resisted the urge to ask 'why don't you throw yourself out of a window'. He paused for a moment, making it look as if he was thinking. He furrowed his brow and stared up at the ceiling for a second. "None that I can think of at the moment, professor," he replied, looking her in the eye again, but then looking away in case she saw the hatred etched into his retina. In truth his mind was spinning with questions. Why was she here? Why did Hogwarts have a High Inquisitor? Could it be that history was in fact repeating itself, as in literally a carbon copy of his world? But that would mean….

"Well," said Umbridge, interrupting his stream of thought. "If you do have any questions, my office door is always open, Harry, I want you to know that." It seemed to be her attempt at sounding caring, though she was about as convincing as Voldemort was cuddly.

"Thank you, professor," said Harry, forcing a smile and a polite tone. Inwardly, he was becoming even more suspicious. Dolores Umbridge was only polite when she wanted something. What was she after? What did he have that she wanted? And what would she do to get it?

"You are most welcome, my child," said Umbridge. My child? Yuck! Some people just shouldn't procreate. Harry was amazed that his false smile didn't slip. "As High Inquisitor, I want you to feel that you can come to me with any problem, any at all."

"Like if I was having trouble with school work?" asked Harry, testing the waters. He had given her just enough rope to hang herself with, for her answer would have to correct him, and specify more precisely what she wanted to know.

"No," said Umbridge, a glimmer of impatience crossing her face. "That is for your subject tutors. I am referring to bigger problems, bigger concerns, possibly within your own common room." It had worked, and Harry was beginning to see where this was going.

"I thought we were supposed to go to our head of house about house problems," said Harry innocently. "That would be Professor McGonagall."

"My dear," said Umbridge, putting an arm around Harry and beginning to walk with him in tow, which Harry was sure was not on. Teachers were not supposed to touch a student, except to save their life, lest they be accused of molestation. Harry, however, kept his mouth shut, despite feeling rather sick that she was anywhere near him.

"In recent weeks, in your absence, I'm afraid to say that Professor McGonagall has become…unreliable, and you must not forget that she is only _deputy_ head, whereas I carry the power of the _whole _Ministry with me. As such, I am always in a position to help. If you, for example, had suspicions about certain students in your house, whom you thought might be engaging in banned or illegal activities…" So that was it! She wanted a spy in Gryffindor, the slimy toad! She wanted him to report on Katie.

It also told Harry something else – she suspected the Gryffindors of something, and Harry had a fairly good idea what.

"…and you felt morally obliged to inform someone, as you should, I might, add, then I would be an ideal person to come to. In the case of certain students, teachers like Professor McGonagall, might show favouritism, or bias, and you might feel threatened by the other students. I want you to know, Mr Potter, that I can guarantee your safety. So if you have the slightest suspicion," she said, coming to the end and so adopting an even higher voice, "I want you to come and see me at once."

"I certainly will, professor, thank you," said Harry, his anger kept in check with icy precision. Umbridge beamed at him – the cat that had got the cream.

"And one more thing, Mr Potter," she said, stopping in her tracks. Harry turned to face her, wondering what she wanted now. "I have spoken to Professor Riddle about your absence. We are both happy for you to resume your place at Hogwarts. Now, he has already outlined what has happened to you, however, I know that he can seem like a very… _daunting_ man. I was wondering if there was anything else you might wish to tell me about it, anything else you remember?"

Again, Harry paused looking thoughtful: after a few seconds he shook his head. "No Professor, I think I told Professor Riddle everything." Umbridge looked faintly disappointed, but nodded, the girly smile never leaving her features.

"Well, like I said, Potter," said Umbridge. "My door is always open. Now, I have to get to the feast – I wouldn't want to be late." Without another word, she turned and trotted off down the corridor. After a few paces she came to a stop. "Oh, and Mister Potter," she called. Harry nodded. "Kindly remove that bandana. We can't have the standards of uniform slipping can we?" She quickly turned and headed back to the Great Hall, leaving a much relieved and yet very concerned Harry standing alone. He sighed deeply, glad that it was over. He had no desire to spend any more time in her company than he had to. Personally, he felt he should have been congratulated on his performance, and even given a Bafta.

Taking a second to calm himself, he made a mental note to move with all haste to get out of this hell-hole of a world. If his suspicions were correct, then that one conversation had just told him exactly what was happening. Binns had told him that Grindelwald was gone forever, yet Umbridge was here as High Inquisitor. She had said she carried the full power of the Ministry, and the clubs were banned. Was it possible that what had happened to Harry a year earlier was now happening here? Could it be that this world was almost a carbon copy of his own, and that he was now to live through another year just like the last one? But that would mean…the Ministry had only become silent once Voldemort had returned. Did this mean that Grindelwald was back?

_Calm down, Harry,_ he told himself. _Let's think. _

He didn't know for certain that that was what was happening. It could just be that Riddle was such a crap teacher and general bastard that Fudge, being right for once, had elected to keep an eye on him. Harry certainly would in his position. Thinking about what Binns had said about facts, not rumours, Harry elected to find out exactly what was happening tomorrow morning. He didn't plan to get involved, but he wanted to know. If he now had to avoid Umbridge at every move, it would create more trouble. He needed to be able to move freely.

To that end, he also needed a new way to conceal his scar. His glasses made him look like the old Harry they knew, but the scar was an instant give away. If the bandana was banned, and he wasn't allowed anything in addition to his uniform he couldn't cover it with headwear. He couldn't remove it, which meant he had to cover it up. How? Harry continued down to the Hall, his mind racing ahead, thinking of all the little tricks he knew of how to conceal himself. None for them were any good for this. As he neared the stairs, he passed a pair of girls. As he approached, the whispers became faster and more frantic. He was aware that they were both watching him. Harry quickly raised a hand to his forehead, covering the scar. He smiled at them as he passed, ignoring the fact that they were pointing wide eyed at him. He passed a few feet from them, and in the dim light, he recognised Romilda Vane, another Gryffindor who was perhaps the shallowest person he had ever had the misfortune to meet.

All she cared about seemed to be the cult of celebrity and boys. She got up at six o'clock in order to do her make up according to Ginny. She couldn't bear to be seen without it plastered so thickly that she looked like she was plastic. You couldn't even she her skin beneath all the…..that's it!

Make up. It was so simple! He didn't have to use complex excuses, new charms, or bizarre clothing. He just needed to commandeer some make-up, liberate it from the girl, so to speak. He didn't like stealing, but his time frame was very short. Having walked past one, he pulled out his wand, his back obscuring what he was doing. He stopped and bent forward, tapping his nose with his wand. Fred and George had once explained the mechanics of the nosebleed nougart, and so Harry was able to conjure a quick nosebleed for himself. He quickly turned back to approach the girls, able to smell them from fifteen feet away due to the needlessly strong perfume. He pinched his nose to try to reduce the flow, and to block out the overpowering smell of jasmine.

"Excuse me," he said politely. "Do either of you have a tissue? I've got a nosebleed." Romilda's companion paled slightly at the trickle of blood that seeped through Harry's fingers. Romilda quickly began to rummage in her handbag (stylishly small, which looked good apparently, but meant she had to carry all her books by hand – it summed up the girl, appearance over practicality), searching for a tissue. Harry could see that the bag was not full of useful things, but rather umpteen pots of various…makey-upy…things.

It suddenly occurred to Harry that he had no idea which one he needed. He was able to identify lipstick and an eyebrow pencil, but the rest were all the same to him. Which one did he need? He had heard various words in conversation; foundation, concealer, blusher, mascara, but he had no idea which was which or what they did. Concealer was what he wanted – well the name suggested it at least, but given that it was a scientific fact that girls were a complete mystery, it might not be. Either way, Harry had made his choice – now, what did concealer look like?

He had no idea, but it didn't matter.

"Ahah!" Romilda produced a tissue from her bag and offered it to Harry. He took it and held it to his nose.

"Thank you," he said, smiling at her. He then adjusted his gaze, looking past Romilda. "Oooo, a mouse,"

"AHHH!" both girls spun around and looked panicking down the corridor, searching for the mystery rodent.

_Accio concealer!_

A small round disk the size of a pocket watch jumped out of the bag, and into Harry's hand. He thrust it into his pocket and released the spell on his nose. The bleeding subsided as Romilda and her friend turned back to face him.

"Must have been a trick of the light," said Harry. "Sorry. Thanks for the tissue." He turned and headed off at speed towards the hall. Around the corner he ducked behind a suit of armour. There, he opened the 'pocket-watch thing. Inside there was a pale powdery thing, covered in a dry foam sponge'. The inside of the lid was a mirror. Quickly, Harry, copying what he had seen in films though the years, padded the powder onto his forehead. As he watched, the scar disappeared. Harry felt an odd tingling and his scar seemed to vanish. Harry got the impression that this was magical make-up as the powder aligned itself to his skin pigmentation. He regarded himself in the mirror. His scar was gone; his false-glasses were perched on his nose: he looked a far cry from the Dark Knight. It was good enough.

Harry pocketed the make-up and hurried down to the Great Hall to find most people already there. The staff were all there, sitting at the head table, the only one out of her seat was Dolores Umbridge. The benches looked fairly full, and it seemed that almost all of the school was already gathered. Every one of them would want to know what had happened to him. Still, he was used to stares by now. He pushed his fake glasses up his nose, and entered the hall. Harry slipped in and slid onto the end of the bench, next to a seventh year called Lindsay, whom he had hardly spoken to in five years of living in the same Tower.

He noticed that a fair few eyes had followed him in. There were people pointing, staring, and whispering all around the room. Harry felt himself blush, and let his head sink. There was no need to appear proud. He was saved from anyone working up the courage to ask him what had happened by Riddle rising to his feet. Harry noticed that he did not look once at Katie. His voice was warm and jovial as he addressed the school, something Harry wouldn't have thought possible.

"Welcome back," he began, "and a happy New Year to all. I hope over Christmas you have all indulged in many turkeys, lots of Christmas puddings, and several slices of cake, all of which are guaranteed to give your brain a wonderful supply of fuel for the coming term. Soon, we shall eat, but first, as you know from your arrival, we have a few things to discuss. Firstly, I am delighted to inform you that one of our number, whom it was believed until recently had left us for good, has returned to us. I would like to welcome Harry Potter back to Hogwarts. I know you will all be curious about Mr Potter's recent whereabouts, but I must stress that he has been through a terrifying and horrible ordeal, and it would be most unfair for us all to demand details he would rather not relive. As such, I would ask that you all give Mr Potter time. He will tell you what happened in his own time. "

Harry grimaced inwardly. If only Riddle would take his own advice and stop being a suspicious git.

At the front, Riddle continued, "Now, on to perhaps the most pressing topic: the incident on the train. I would like to start by…"

_Hem, hem!_

A small girly cough sounded from the direction of Dolores Umbridge. Harry heard a soft groan as the lady in question got to her feet. It seemed from the reaction that she was as popular here as she had been back home. "If I may, Professor Riddle, I would like to make this announcement myself. After all, the Aurors who so quickly responded were from the Ministry, and it was a Ministry team who conducted the investigation. My information may be more up to date than yours, so I think it would be better if I were to do this part."

Riddle stood staring at her for a moment, before his head bowed slightly and he gestured to the school with an arm. "But of course, Professor Umbridge."

The groan rumbled again as Umbridge stepped around the side of the table and adopted her usual poise centre-stage. Harry raised his head, this time determined to listen to every word, as he did not have Hermione to translate Ministry-bollocks into English. Progress for progress' sake and all that – this time he needed to listen himself. He needed to know as much as he could. Knowledge was power.

"The explosion at the station no more than thirty minutes ago was the result of incompetence by station staff. Allow me to explain." She held up a roll of parchment and took a deep breath before continuing. "This is the official report of the Aurors. It says that the recent refurbishment of the station was extensive. Once it was complete, the station staff failed to conduct a complete survey of the tracks. As such, they missed a series of pots of various substances. These were left on the tracks in the path of the Hogwarts Express. As the train arrived, the heat from the steam in the engine ignited these chemicals, causing the explosion. Luckily, the station staff were quick enough to open the doors and to move you all to the carriages."

_Hang on, _thought Harry. Firstly, the explosion was a good twenty metres from the train and the tracks. Secondly, if it was a problem with the tracks, the train would have been damaged. Then there was the matter of the blame. In one sentence she's accusing the station staff, and then in the next she's praising them? That made no sense. It was a bomb, the smell of carbon and sulphur gave it away. That was no chemical or paint explosion. Harry would have known that even without the presence of a masked kidnapper proficient in the Dark Arts.

In absence of white masks, Harry wasn't going to label this a Death Eater incident, but it was certainly an attack. Whatever it was, it was being covered up. The Ministry seemed to be sticking true to form: they were playing down the threat and covering it up. That, combined with Umbridge being in place, led Harry to one very nasty conclusion: Grindelwald was back and history was repeating itself.

Umbridge continued, "Aurors were on the scene within ten minutes and the situation was under control. Once again, I stress that this was an industrial accident."

"How could the Aurors investigate and file a report in less than half an hour?" asked a Ravenclaw boy loudly.

"Mr Morgan, if you have a question, you will raise your hand," said Umbridge coldly. Morgan did so, but she turned instantly away. Harry felt a flash of anger, remembering when he had been treated with similar negligence.

"I want each of you to know that you are in no danger," said Umbridge in a sickeningly sweet voice. "This was an accident and despite the rumour-mongering of a few students, this was not the work of Dark wizards." She shot a dirty look at Katie.

With that, she sank back into her chair. Riddle once again rose, greeted by a silent hall. Harry doubted half of them had believed that pack of lies. Riddle, it seemed, had nothing more to say, or thought that nothing else was worth saying, for he raised his hands,

"Let us eat," he said, clapping his hands. Instantly the tables were full of food, and the excited buzz of chatter sparked up, including a rather loud, 'Oh, I've been waiting all day for this!' from Ron Weasley's direction. Harry grinned: some things never changed.

Harry ate in silence, not talking to any of those around him, nor listening to their conversations. His mind was miles away, on the Node and how to get it started once again. It was simple in theory, but how exactly did one get ahold of rare books? Umbridge would be checking mail if history really was repeating itself. That meant he couldn't just order one, even if he knew where to order one from. If the Restricted Section didn't have such a book, he would have to look elsewhere, and the only place he knew to start was Knockturn Alley, a prospect he did not relish. He would also have to start befriending Hermione tonight. He would need her help, and an odd request from a friend was better than a random one from a stranger. He made a note to try and speak to her. It was Sunday now, so he would try later, and then if at all possible, sit next to her in a lesson tomorrow. That should get him off to a bright start.

Once the food vanished, Riddle rose to his feet once more. It was the customary spiel about not going into the Forbidden Forest, obeying the Prefects, the extension of the banned-list and such like. When he was done, he signalled for the students to return to their common rooms.

The students began to file out. Harry rose to his feet, keeping an eye on the Headmaster. As he watched, Riddle bent over and whispered in McGonagall's ear. She nodded and then Riddle left through the side door. Harry frowned, but decided that it was none of his business. Hopefully it didn't concern him. He turned and made for the exit, wanting to avoid the stares and to get back to the common room before everyone else, just to avoid the rest of the Gryffindors. As he was about to leave, he heard his name being called. Harry turned to see McGonagall making her way through the lines of students towards him.

"Mr Potter," she said as she neared. "You will accompany me to my office." With that she marched past him and out into the corridor.

Harry wasn't sure if things had gotten better or worse. He was not being stared at much, but McGonagall didn't look best pleased. Was it to do with what Riddle had told her? What had happened? Was he in trouble? This didn't scare him in the traditional sense – he could flame out if all else failed. However, he needed to be at Hogwarts to have a reasonable chance of finding the information he needed. He needed to be somewhere safe, somewhere he knew. If he had been rumbled, then he would have to run, which would cut him off from the world. He wouldn't know what was happening and wouldn't be able to use Hogwarts' great resources.

Harry fell in step behind her as she marched up the stairs and along the corridor in the direction of her office. As she arrived, the door opened for her and she stepped into the office. It looked similar, but more organised than he had seen it in the Unholy Land. There was not a full-scale overt war on in this world, for no one had acknowledged the Dark Lord's return. As such there was less paperwork as she didn't have Order work scattered around, or rather, her Order work was hidden - else she would be arrested.

Harry entered the room after her and shut the door behind him. Without thinking, he crossed to the sofa, just as he had during the Animagus classes in the Unholy Land. He didn't feel comfortable enough with this McGonagall to kick off his shoes and sprawl out with his feet up as he had done in Rose's world, but he definitely felt the need to sit down.

Harry turned and was about to sit when McGonagall looked up from the desk behind which she had sat down.

"Potter, no!" she snapped. Harry froze in surprise at her unprovoked anger. "Come here!" she added quickly. Harry crossed the office quickly, wondering what he had done wrong.

McGonagall had recovered her composure now and looked as calm as ever. She bent down and opened a drawer in the desk, pulling out a pair of spectacles and placing them on her nose. She then took a new file filled with parchments off one of the shelves behind her desk and opened it in front of her. McGonagall flicked through the numerous sheets of parchment until she found the one she wanted and removed it from the folder.

"Your timetable, Potter," she said, holding it out to him. Ah, so that was what this meeting was about. Harry breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn't been found out, wasn't in trouble, and didn't need to run. Harry stepped forward and took the sheet. He stared down at it. Charms, Potions, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Herbology, and Transfiguration.

Not a bad set of subjects, Harry noted. It also raised the point that he was going to have to attend lessons and work during his time here. That would slow him down considerably, but he couldn't just up and leave. For a start they would start looking for him and secondly, Hogwarts was a mine of information. He needed to be here. It looked like he was in for these lessons, no matter what. Defence he was fine with, though Umbridge wasn't going to teach them much. Transfiguration he was fine with as well as Charms. Herbology was average, but Potions was a bit of a surprise. He was amazed he had managed to pass that at all, let alone be good enough for a NEWT. Harry blamed Snape's teaching, of course._ If only I had been taught by the Half-Blood Prince instead of Snape,_ thought Harry.

He was suddenly aware of McGonagall watching him. She seemed almost to be sizing him up. Harry tensed, suddenly overcome with the feeling that he was being played or manipulated.

"Now, Potter," said McGonagall once she had his attention. "I want to discuss Potions and Transfiguration with you."

"Er…okay," said Harry, stumped by the statement. What was she on about?

"In your OWLs," began McGonagall. "You achieved an Exceeds Expectations in both subjects. However when we consider that the Acceptable to Exceeds Expectations borderline is 65 percent and your marks in Potions and Transfiguration were 68 and 69 respectively, this would suggest that you are liable to struggle, especially having missed over a month of lessons." Ah,_ thought Harry. The penny drops. _

"In Transfiguration, your grades have fluctuated over the last few years; at times they have reached well into Exceeds Expectations, while at other times, they have bordered on a fail. Potter, I am going to be honest with you: unless you can guarantee to work at grade E, I see no place for you in my classes. In addition, you have over a month of work to catch up on, and I am not sure that you can handle that. You will have to catch up in all of your subjects, and that is a lot of extra work. Therefore, in light of this catching up, I think it best we keep you to four NEWTS, not five as is standard. In short, I am giving you the option to drop either Potions or Transfiguration, in order that you concentrate on the remaining four."

Harry nodded. His mind was racing. The initial disappoint he had felt on hearing his results had faded away as he reminded himself that these were not his grades. He was aware that back home, he still had to go through this routine, however these grades did not matter - they were not his. On top of that, he was only doing four NEWTS, which gave him even more time in the week to go about finding a way home. This could be a blessing in disguise. He would most likely be ridiculed by Malfoy, but sod him – Harry wouldn't be around long enough to have to deal with it.

"So, Potter," said McGonagall. "Which would you rather continue with, Potions or Transfiguration?" Harry paused, considering his options. Both would be hard work, even if he put in as little effort as possible, he still needed to submit something for each essay. Lessons just seemed so trivial compared to what he was doing in his spare time, that he didn't really care. He was about to pick one at random but then a thought struck him.

"Professor," said Harry, trying to appear nervous. "Could I take a course that I haven't done before?"

"What have you in mind, Potter?" asked McGonagall, surveying him.

"Well, I was thinking," said Harry. "I might like to try Arithmancy." If he could learn a little about the subject, maybe he could do some of the equations needed to get home by himself.

"I see," said McGonagall. "Potter, not having done the OWL, you cannot take the NEWT, as you simply would not be up to it. Professor Vector might be convinced to take you for an OWL in Arithmancy. You could sit in with fourth years and then fifth years next year. This has been known to happen in the past, but you must bear in mind that it puts strain on the teacher and on you. Again, you have a month to make up. Potter, it is not unheard of, but you still have a lot of catching up to do, and personally, I feel it would be better to concentrate your efforts elsewhere. Also, you would need to see Professor Vector personally, and convince him that you truly are interested and dedicated to his subject."

Harry thought about it. If he was taking an OWL level class, he wouldn't get up to the standard of equations he needed. If they were complex enough for Flamel to make a mistake, it was highly likely that they were above NEWT standard, so chances were that even a NEWT was pointless – on reflection, it had been a stupid idea. Also, he didn't have two years to study; time was against him. For all he knew, his other self was destroying Hogwarts at this very moment and Ron and Hermione could be dead. He shivered at the thought. No, he needed to find a way home as quickly as possible. Hermione or Vector would have to do the equations for him. Harry didn't like the idea of forcing Hermione into doing anything, but if push came to shove, he would have to use force. She is not the real Hermione, he reminded himself. Knowing two Hermiones from two worlds, he knew this was true, but he had to train himself to get out of this mindset. _She is not real_, he said to himself. _She is not real! _

He turned back to McGonagall. "Yeah, it was a silly idea," he said with a small smile. "I think Potions would be better." McGonagall raised an eyebrow as he rejected her own subject. Harry blushed slightly and looked downwards, half in genuine embarrassment and half to look more nervous. McGonagall looked at him for a minute before tapping his timetable with her wand. As Harry watched, the boxes with Transfiguration on them disappeared.

Harry folded it over and pocketed it without looking.

"Is there anything else, Professor?" he asked. He wanted to get back up to the tower, mainly to get some sleep.

Was it his imagination, or did McGonagall look a little…uneasy? She shifted slightly, and looked as if she was wrestling with her conscience.

"Yes," she said softly, sighing deeply and removing her glasses. "Pot…Harry, take a seat." Harry took a few steps towards the sofa. "No," she interrupted him, "here". She gestured to an armchair near the desk. Cautiously. Harry sank into the chair, resting his elbows on the armrests and holding his hands cupped together in his lap. He was reminded of the hours spent in here learning to turn his body into that of a Phoenix. Harry pushed the idea aside and focused on McGonagall and his act. He consciously interlocked his fingers and began to move them. He tried to make himself small, as if he were afraid. He had spent many years making Uncle Vernon think he wasn't worth the trouble of hitting or locking up, trying to fade into the background. He was rather good at appearing small and weak.

McGonagall finished polishing her spectacles and placed them back on her nose before turning to face Harry, her expression now less severe. Harry was fairly sure she was about to ask him where he had been. Even teachers, it seemed, wanted gossip straight from the horse's mouth. He was, however mistaken.

"Harry," she began, still looking awkward. "I want to apologise to you." Well, he certainly hadn't been expecting that!

"Why, professor?" he asked, trying not to show his relief.

"Harry, when I escorted you to St. Mungos last December," she began, "the day of the…fire, I…it was only then that I had a detailed look at your file." Harry said nothing. In all honestly, he had no idea what to say, as he didn't know what was in that file.

Harry had no idea what she was on about and decided it was best to keep quiet. He continued to stare, waiting for her to make the next move.

"I had read your file," explained the professor. "I knew what it contained, but for some reason, one I cannot name myself, or even understand, I never did anything about it." Harry sat motionless, staring at his head of house, She shifted in her chair, sighed and removed her glasses, placing them on the desk. Using both hands, she brushed non-existent stray hairs back up over her head, the palms of her hands pressing her skull. As they arrived at the base of her skull, they began massaging her neck. She looked rather tired and weary.

"Harry," she said at last. "What I am trying to say is that I am sorry." Again, Harry did not move. Partially because he didn't know what to say, partially because McGonagall's apology had taken him by surprise and thirdly because he didn't know what the Harry of this world would do if he were here.

"It was my duty, as your head of house, to look after your wellbeing," said McGonagall speaking slowly. It is clear to see that I failed in that respect." There was a pause and Harry felt obligated to speak. He just knew that he had to keep his answers short. Every lie he told had to then be true from then on, and he risked contradicting himself or showing knowledge he shouldn't have if he talked too much.

"You couldn't have known about the fire," said Harry at last.

"The fire…" echoed McGonagall. "You know it still haunts me, Potter. The heat, the smell. On occasions, I still have nightmares. It is a miracle that you survived. However, my failure goes back long before the fire, long before this year. In fact, I think it goes right back to the time I came to visit you in Little Whinging, do you remember?"

Harry stiffened. He had no idea what had happened. McGonagall had come to Privet Drive? But he wasn't the chosen one. Why would the Order…Oh! Suddenly he understood. She had delivered his first Hogwarts letter.

"You were so young and so scared," said McGonagall, reminiscing. "I knew that your mother and aunt had not gotten on well. When I saw you, dressed in those oversized jumpers, meek as a mouse, constantly glancing at your uncle before answering, I knew what it meant. They had tried to suppress the magic out of you."

Harry nodded, assuming the Dursleys wouldn't have changed.

"Having seen the kind of upbringing you had had," said McGonagall, "having been shouted at by your uncle for bringing what he referred to as 'unnaturalness' to his house, I should have paid you closer attention, Harry. Now it is not my wish to belittle or insult your family in front of you: however, I believe you to be sufficiently emotionally mature to be able to deal with the fact that you had a rather painful upbringing, and at that the view of you taken by Mr and Mrs Dursley was atrocious and cruel."

"What are you trying to say, professor?" asked Harry.

"That I realise now that I made some serious errors of judgement," said McGonagall. "I wish I could take them back, but I can't. I am hoping, Mr Po…Harry, that you will accept my apology and that we can start again."

"How do you mean, professor?" asked Harry, though he had a feeling that he knew where she was leading him.

"I can appreciate that you are in a unique situation," said McGonagall. "After what you have been through, the world must seem a hostile place." Harry raised an eyebrow. Her words were more appropriate, than she could ever know. "If you ever need any help, if you ever need someone to talk to, then my door is open. If you have any worries, concerns, or suspicions about yourself or any of your fellow students, you can come to me."

"Suspicions?" The word echoed in his mind. This was not the first time that evening that he had heard that word. It was not the first time he had been asked if he had any about certain students.

"These are confusing times," said McGonagall, shifting slightly. Harry's semi-professional eye could see that she was uneasy, though she was doing her best to hide it. "It is important to know who we can trust."

"Ah," said Harry, understanding. This was the same talk he had had with Umbridge just an hour ago. Both parties had already tried to recruit him. She was no better than Umbridge.

Harry didn't feel in any way flattered, for they were recruiting him simply as another spy, another person who could see what Katie was doing. He felt rather insulted that he was being used, but realised that that was how it had always been. Dumbledore had used Harry back home, and then tried to again in the Unholy Land. Harry would have felt better if they were recruiting him as a fighter, not a sneak, but he realised that they knew nothing. Either way, it didn't affect him – he was not on the Ministry's side, nor was he on the Order's side. He was on his own side.

"Do you understand what I am trying to say?" asked McGonagall.

"Yes," said Harry. A thought suddenly occurred to him. He could test how close to his own past this world really was. If he was wrong, the worst that could happen would be he would appear mad – his faulty memory could be blamed for that. It was time to test McGonagall. "Progress for progress's sake must be discouraged," said Harry clearly.

McGonagall didn't move, save for her eyebrows narrowing just slightly. She had tried to hide the reaction, but she couldn't. It was clearly not what she had been expecting. Then again, reciting the Umbridge doctrine would be enough to arouse her suspicions. By her reaction, Harry now knew for certain that Umbridge was here for the same reason she had been in his world, and McGonagall and Riddle's Order were indeed working behind the scenes. Harry now had to make the point that he was not on Umbridge's side either.

"Fudge and Riddle can argue over who is in charge until they are blue in the face," said Harry calmly. "You're not the first to try this, Professor, and rest assured that I have given Dolores Umbridge the same answer as I will give you. This is your fight, not ours. Leave the students out of it." With that, Harry turned to leave. He didn't want to show any more knowledge than he had already. Thus far, he hadn't told her anything that he wouldn't have remembered or been told by the other students.

It seemed from McGonagall's responses that history was indeed repeating itself. She hadn't questioned anything he had said, even the name of the Minster. It was Fudge here, not Crouch. This seemed to be a carbon copy of his own world. That meant that the Dark Lord was alive and well - and plotting. Assuming it was a perfect copy, Katie would be having one hell of an awful time, and there was worse to come. Although it was none of his business, Harry decided to quickly try and help her.

Just before he reached the door, he turned back to his Head of House.

"Instead of trying to get other students to spy for you, why doesn't Riddle just talk to her?" asked Harry, before disappearing out into the corridor.

He paused outside and took a deep breath. Riddle and Umbridge were both trying to get the rest of the students to spy on Katie and her friends. The poor girl was being watched from every side, and didn't know who to trust. Riddle was just as guilty of manipulation and underhanded tactics as Umbridge. Then again, so was Dumbledore.

Harry thought back to what it had been like when he had been in Katie's position. He remembered the slander, the dirty looks he had received. He remembered the detentions, the Blood-Quill, the school under the cloak of tyranny. He shivered at the memory. Only it was no longer a memory, was it? It was happening right here, right now, in this very school. The only difference was that he wasn't the target. Yet he still felt pity for Katie. All those people who didn't feel it for him last year; the thought made him angry again. How could they have given up on him like that? They had known him long enough. How could anyone believe that he would make it all up?

Those same stupid cowards who followed the Ministry like lambs to the slaughter were now casting the same hateful eye at Katie. Admittedly, Harry knew more than most - in fact, more than anyone in this universe - but he still failed to see how anyone could think that someone like Katie would make it all up. Poor girl.

And it would only get worse. In a few months, she would head to the Ministry and have her Godfather killed before her eyes. She would use the curse on Bellatrix and from there…well, from there even Harry didn't know what would come next – unless she jumped into another universe…oh, that was too confusing to think about.

Harry stood back upright. Poor Katie. Still, it was the way of things. She needed to go through that. The experience would make her strong and give her the will to fight. Knowing the prophecy, knowing the reason why she was in this situation, she could then move on.

It also showed that Riddle was no better than Dumbledore. Harry sighed. Two great minds and both of them managed to overlook the simplest of emotions. On reflection, Harry realised that certain people had to forego the luxury of being able to feel, so that the masses could have it. People like Dumbledore, Riddle, and Harry himself, as a soldier, needed to be able to switch off his feelings and do some ungodly things in order to preserve the happiness of the masses.

_How does God weigh that up?_ wondered Harry. Some terrible sins done to protect people? Taking a sin upon oneself to spare the innocent? Would He understand? Harry didn't believe that confession purged the soul, in fact he didn't really believe at all. He had grown up in Muggle England, being told that there was a God, but not really believing it. He sat on the fence. However, having seen more of existence than anyone else, he couldn't help but wonder if something had made it all this way, and if that were true and Harry was ultimately to be judged… what would be the verdict? Could he put his hand on his heart and say that of all the evil he had done, all the lives he had taken, that it was all for a good cause?

He shook his head. He had done some god-awful things in his lifetime. He couldn't help but wonder: if he were in Riddle's place or Dumbledore's, would he make the same choice?

"Is he gone?" came a voice from inside the room.

Harry froze. It was a male voice, and one that he had no difficulty in recognising. It was Riddle. The son of a bitch had been in there through that whole conversation! He had been spying on Harry. Harry felt a surge of anger and a deep-rooted desire to go in there and blast Riddle from here to Kingdom-come.

Suddenly Harry realised that if he was asking if Harry had gone, then McGonagall was about to check. He needed to make himself scarce, but this was a conversation he wanted to hear.

_Two can play at the spying game,_ Riddle, Harry thought.

"_Gravitae Invertus!"_ he hissed, swishing his wand as Sirius had taught him in the Unholy Land. His feet left the floor and he felt an odd blend of spinning and falling as the world rotated around him. Harry fell upwards to the ceiling, landing gently amongst the rafters and looking 'up' at the door below him. It was disorientating to stand upright on the ceiling with gravity holding you down, which was in fact up. It was confusing.

He recovered quickly from the disorientation and crouched down in the shadows, twenty feet above the floor. The advantage of castles was that they were on such a scale that the ceilings afforded a lot of shadow to move amongst.

Suddenly McGonagall appeared below him, stepping out into the corridor and looking in each direction. She stared in each direction for a few seconds and then, satisfied that they were alone, she turned back to face the door and Harry saw her nod. Harry's body tensed as he watched Riddle appear from beneath an Invisibility Cloak, which he then folded and hung over his arm. Harry's fists clenched as he watched the deceitful bastard. He felt a strong desire to curse Riddle, but managed to keep his calm. That must have been what he had whispered to McGonagall about at the end of the feast. Sneaky conniving tosser!

The bastard had been hiding somewhere in the room under that cloak…the sofa! That was why McGonagall had stopped him from sitting down on it, not once, but twice. How he had failed to pick up on it? He had nearly sat on Riddle! Harry nearly laughed, but his anger stopped him. How dare Riddle try and spy on Harry! In truth, Harry knew that he had been for some time, but he was so frustrated with himself for not realising that Riddle had been in there that he needed someone to blame.

"What do you think?" McGonagall asked. Riddle looked up at her, pausing for a moment. Although the corridor was gloomy, Harry could see the troubled expression on his face.

"Curious," said Riddle, stepping out into the corridor, his voice hushed. What Harry wouldn't have given for a set of Extendable Ears. "His responses to you bringing up his family were shallow, and he maintained a level of calm I would not have expected from him."

"He's too calm," agreed McGonagall. "All that talk about his mistreatment and he brushed it off like water off a duck's back."

"Yet he seemed to understand, to remember," continued Riddle. "He knew exactly what you meant, it just didn't seem to affect him. He is Harry Potter, but something in his mind, his mentality, has changed a great deal." Harry pondered this. So Riddle accepted that he was who he claimed he was, but was suspicious of his change of character. _Must tone down, must tone down,_ Harry told himself.

"I cannot help but wonder why he wanted to do Arithmancy, either," said McGonagall. "He has no history or interest in the subject." Harry took a deep breath. Surely Riddle wouldn't be able to link that small fact to what he had planning, would he? It was a hell of a jump.

"That, Minerva," said Riddle, "is the least of our worries." Harry let the breath go. _Phew. _Harry knew that the most important thing was that Riddle must never learn about the Node.

"So what have you found out?" McGonagall asked him. Harry's ear pricked up. This was what he was here for, what he wanted to hear.

Riddle sighed. "I have spent the last two days visiting all the Muggle hospitals in reach of St Mungo's."

_Uh-oh. _Harry's blood ran cold. He froze and a chill ran up his spine. _Christ, what had Riddle found?_

"None of them treated any burn victims matching Harry's description in the whole of December," Riddle announced. "There are no records of any comatose teenagers, either." Christ, he had been found out! Riddle knew he was lying! What now? Would Riddle hunt him down? If he did, Harry would have to run. Where would he go, what would he do? Would he end up on the streets?

"Maybe he wasn't burned; his magic might have…" began McGonagall. Yes, maybe McGonagall could talk him out of it.

"It gets worse, Minerva," said Riddle, shaking his head. God, what else had he pieced together? "The Muggle Fire Brigade were never even called to St Mungo's."

Mary, mother of God. Riddle had proof that Harry had lied to him. Was the Node safe? What would Riddle do? Try and capture him? That wasn't a problem, Harry could Flame out in an instant if needs be, but doing so would cut him off from Hogwarts. It would take longer to get back – he would have to steal resources and become a criminal just to get home.

"But that means that the whole story is a lie," said McGonagall, voicing what Harry and Riddle had each been thinking.

"A lie he was able to tell me to my face," said Riddle, bowing his head and massaging his forehead. He suddenly seemed much older and more tired than he was. "I was not looking for a lie, I grant you that, but he was still able to Occlude his mind. This is very concerning, Minerva. We have no idea what has happened to Harry or who taught him Occlumency."

"Is that really important?" asked McGonagall. "Does it matter who taught him?"

"Yes," said Riddle. "Occlumency is not easy and takes much practice. If you were to spend time teaching or learning it, you can be sure that it was for a very good reason. Why was he taught it? Why does he need it, or think that he needs it, unless to be able to lie and hide his thoughts? What is he hiding? Who wants him to hide whatever it is?"

"I see your point," said McGonagall. So did Harry. He couldn't fault Riddle on his logic. He did have a keen mind, when put to a good use. "Perhaps we should get him to teach Miss Bell," suggested McGonagall.

"No, Minerva," said Riddle, looking up sharply. "I think that putting Kathryn and Harry together is probably the most dangerous thing we could possibly do." Harry made a note – Riddle now considered him a danger. He needed to be doubly careful if Riddle was now to be doubly sneaky.

"You think he might be dangerous?" asked McGonagall.

"His response to your suggestion that he report to you about Miss Bell would suggest not," said Riddle, looking thoughtful. "If anything, he seems to be protecting her. He has told two different people that he will not spy, and suggested I allow myself to come close to Miss Bell."

"He did show a remarkable amount of intuition in realising what was happening," said McGonagall. "He knew you were the one watching her. The boy has a keen mind." Harry grimaced, had he really been that obvious? In hindsight yes. He had thought he was doing the right thing, staying neutral and casually mentioning helping Katie, but it seemed he had done the opposite, and become more involved. Harry cursed his own stupidity.

"What worries me," said Riddle, "is his advice for me. He said I should get close to her - the one thing that I am trying my best_ not_ to do. Look at the evidence: he knows more than most people should about the situation and he is tempting me to do what Grindelwald wants me to do."

"You believe he is working for You-Know-Who?" asked McGonagall, outraged. Harry felt an equal rush of outrage at the accusation. He was NOT a Death Eater. He also felt a glimmer of gratitude that McGonagall didn't believe that.

"I do not know," said Riddle. "He doesn't seem to be, but someone has taught him these skills. Harry is a walking, talking contradiction. Ignore the fact that he is hiding something and seems to hate me. If you speak to him, he seems generally a nice enough person; polite, courteous, if a little distant, and seems like he was trying to help Kathryn. However, he arrived armed to the teeth, he can block his mind, and his mind is sharper. In his conflict last week with Mr Malfoy, he seemed more assertive, and yet so gentle. Instant aggressive reaction, but then backs down from any form of a fight. I can't profile him, Minerva. I can't say how he will react in any given situation. My only thought is that he bears no ill will towards the students."

"So what do we do about him?"

"At present, nothing," said Riddle. "I do not feel he poses a threat to the students around him, though we must step up our surveillance. Also, we must insure that he and Kathryn are never left alone together. I fear his effect on her would be most negative, and she will need to stay focused."

McGonagall nodded. "I will endeavour to keep an eye on the pair of them. I think Mr Longbottom could be convinced to ensure that Potter and Bell are never left alone. If he were to overhear a conversation, for example." It was Riddle's turn to nod.

"I shall leave it in your capable hands," he said to her. "As for now, Minerva, we should get some sleep. Good night." He bowed slightly.

McGonagall checked her watch and nodded before retreating into her rooms. Riddle waited until the door had closed before turning on his heel and heading off in the direction of his office.

As Riddle disappeared down the corridor, Harry breathed a sigh of relief. He was gone.

Harry dropped down to the floor and took a moment to steady himself.

Well, that conversation had certainly been enlightening, and was definitely cause for concern. Riddle knew he had never been to a Muggle hospital. He was suspicious enough to set up a meeting with McGonagall and watch it. He also didn't want Harry anywhere near Katie. He was most likely protecting her from Harry. Still, it didn't matter. Katie didn't really concern Harry. She would have to go through the upcoming events in order to learn from them. That was what she was meant to do. It wasn't his fault or his problem.

Still, Riddle was getting more suspicious, and that wasn't good. Katie was suspicious too, but she hadn't the resources to investigate properly. Riddle was more of a concern. Harry had better step up his attempts to find a way home, and quickly. Riddle was hatching a plan to monitor Harry and Katie, possibly using Neville. Harry would need to keep his ear to the ground in order to avoid these little traps. Now the students were back and it was harder for anyone to monitor him, he should have been free to search, but with Riddle, Umbridge, McGonagall, and Katie all watching him, it wasn't going to be as easy as he had first thought. Still, he did need to make a start. Tomorrow, it was time for a quick visit to Borgin and Burkes.

XxXxX

Katie scuffed her feet as she wandered aimlessly down the endless passages of the East Wing. The sound of her scraping soles echoed off the walls in a rough hiss. The sun had set hours ago and the only light came from the flickering torches. Yet, it didn't matter for she hardly noticed them as she passed, walking onwards with no purpose or destination. Her only objective was time. She wanted to be alone.

"_Kill the spare!"_

Those three words echoed through her mind. He had killed Cormac just for being there. And then, a few hours ago, someone – and she had a fair idea who – had detonated a bomb at the station in Hogsmeade. Then Umbridge had hinted that Katie had made it all up at the feast. Inside, Katie was a turmoil of emotion.

So it had finally begun. He had been back for over six months. The utter silence of the first term had been a nightmare. She had endured the slander, the insults, and the hostile gazes for four months. Now that there had been an attack, albeit a rather small one, now perhaps someone would believe her. That was a rather selfish point of view, but she couldn't help feeling that way.

Another strong pang she felt was guilt. Luckily no one had died, but it was close enough. An attack on Hogwarts, on her friends, was a strong message. Grindelwald was back and he was starting his campaign against Hogwarts. It was odd that he had been quiet so long, but then again, if the Ministry was ignoring him, he was probably taking the time to quietly build an army. She guessed that this attack meant he was now ready. War was imminent. Katie was scared - not that she would admit it to anyone. How many would die before it was over? How many more Cormacs would there be? How many more of her friends would be made to suffer?

_OOF!_

Her foot hit something warm and soft. She stumbled forwards, pressing her hands against the wall to try and steady herself. She managed to regain her balance and, having righted herself, stared down into a pair of heavily magnified eyes.

"Washhhh where you'rrrre….hic….gowwwing!" said an indignant voice from the gloom at her feet.

"Professor Trelawney?" said Katie, kneeling down next to her. By the light of the burning torches, she could see the professor slumped against the wall, her shawls falling down over her shoulders, her glasses crooked and her hair a mess. Katie didn't need to see the empty bottle of sherry by her side, as the smell of her breath was enough to alert anyone within half a mile to the fact that she was drunk.

"Are you alright?" asked Katie, not knowing what else to say. The last time she had seen Trelawney, Umbridge had been trying to evict her. Riddle had taken pity on her, though, and she had been allowed to stay. Part of Katie thought that it would be better for her to have gone, but she did pity the so-called Seer. Riddle too seemed to pity her. Although Katie recalled him mentioning that he didn't overly value Divination, and thought that she had made only two correct prophecies in her life, he had still taken pity on her and allowed her to stay in the castle.

Katie hadn't heard a peep from her ever since, until she had literally stumbled across her having passed out in a corridor. Katie grimaced. It shouldn't really be her job to get her back to her rooms, wherever they were. She wasn't even a prefect, but she also knew that she couldn't just leave her alone. Trelawney might wander off again in her drunken state, and there were many things in the castle that could potentially be dangerous in her state, the most prominent of which was Peeves.

"Come on, Professor," said Katie, taking the professor by the hand and pulling the empty bottle free from her grip and slipping it into her own pocket. She hoisted the professor to her feet. As Katie released her, she fell back against the wall for support, though she managed to remain standing. She looked around the corridor, as if having awoken from a daze.

"I'm late for me lesson," she announced, pointing at the setting sun. Lessons hadn't restarted yet, and even if they were running, Trelawney was, in fact, about five hours late, but that didn't seem to bother her. She pushed off the wall, and managed to stagger a few steps in the wrong direction. Katie managed not to laugh and grabbed the Professor by the arm.

"Come on," she said gently, pulling the professor around to face her.

Suddenly Trelawney's head snapped up to face her. With an unheard-of burst of strength, Trelawney grabbed her by the shoulders and forced her back against the wall, any sign of dizziness or incoherency gone. Katie cried out in surprise as Trelawney brutally forced her against the wall, her face inches from Katie's.

When she spoke, the voice was not her own. It was a voice that Katie had heard but once before.

"_He shall come to you on swift wings, a stranger from an unholy land," _she rasped, her voice croaky, deep and vacant, _"and disaster shall follow in his wake. My last shall be re-written, your future re-cast. But beware your guardians; each will tempt you into their own darkness…choose wisely, Chosen One….Your fate and the Knight's are now entwined. He is not as strong as he appears. His life now hangs in the balance, but it is you who must choose for him, and with your choice, he may forever be lost to this world…choose wisely, Chosen One, choose wisely."_

With that, her eyes rolled upwards into her head and her body went limp, slumping to the floor in a pile. Katie was too shocked to move. She stood shaking for nearly half a minute before coming to her senses, the words playing over in her mind.

_That was the same voice she used when she predicted….oh my GOD! _

It was a real prophecy, just like the one she had made all those years ago! She struggled to remember all that had been said. A stranger was coming, who would tempt her – no, her guardians would tempt her. Her fate was entwined with the night and someone's life was hanging in the balance. She had to protect whoever it was. Katie's head was spinning.

She stepped away from the wall, her mind racing. Katie turned to head back to the common room when her foot came into contact with something warm and soft. She looked down.

Of course! Trelawney. In light of the prophecy, she had completely forgotten what she was doing here and with whom. Not bothering with manners any more, she pulled her wand out of her pocket and muttered the Levitation charm. She had no idea where Trelawney was staying, so the Hospital Wing seemed to be the best choice. Madam Pomfrey could give her some potion and she would be as right as rain.

Katie came out of the passage onto the East staircases.

"BELL!" she turned to see Professor Sinistra coming towards her, darting up the stairs. "What has happened here?"

"I found her drunk, professor," said Katie, holding out the bottle she had confiscated.

"Ah, yes," said Sinistra, taking the bottle. "She was always fond of a drop of sherry."

"She's had a little more than a drop," said Katie, looking down at the unconscious professor.

"Hmmm," said Sinistra. "Very well, Miss Bell, return to your common room. I shall see to it that Professor Trelawney gets to the Hospital Wing."

Katie didn't need telling twice and turned on her heel, heading back to the common room. She needed to write this down.

XxXxX

"Is this all of it?" asked Hermione, staring down at the parchment in her hands.

Katie nodded. She had written down everything that Trelawney had said. She was now sitting with Ron, Hermione, and Neville in the farthest corner of the common room. Luckily for them, two third years who now were employees of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes were displaying the latest merchandise courtesy of Fred and George Weasley. A crowd had gathered round the two lads in question, meaning that no one was near where Katie and the gang were sitting and the room was loud enough for them not to be overheard.

Neville and Ron leaned in to read the parchment over Hermione's shoulders.

"Kay," said Neville, looking her straight in the eye. "Sorry, but I have to ask - are you sure this isn't standard home-grown Trelawney BS?" Katie had expected it. Neville had a good mind, although somewhat irrational at times. She knew he or Hermione would ask that question.

"No," said Katie adamantly, shaking her head. "Trust me, I know this is real. She went from drunk to…weird, almost possessed, in an instant and then back again. It was just like a couple of years ago. This is one hundred percent real." She leaned back in the chair, her arms wrapped around her, as she stared defiantly at the group, as if daring anyone to accuse her of being wrong.

"Then you have to share it with Riddle," said Hermione. "He needs to know." This was something else that she had expected, and she had made up her mind.

"No," said Katie firmly, shaking her head again.

"Look, I know he's been ignoring you," said Hermione. "But he needs to see this – it's important."

"He doesn't have time for anyone this year," said Katie. "He comes and goes like the wind, probably up to his eyeballs trying to find out what is happening with Grindelwald – get a grip, Ron – and he doesn't need to be bothered by this."

"But this is important," protested Hermione. "A prophecy, a real one: Katie, we can't just sit on this."

"All he'll do is nod and then tell me to go to bed," said Katie. "And anyway, the prophecy itself says that it's my choice, not his."

"But he could at least give you some advice," said Ginny.

"And help you make an informed choice," said Hermione. God, was everyone against her? Katie grimaced in frustration. Didn't they see that Riddle didn't have time for this? Her anger was so close to its boiling point. The headmaster was always too busy for her these days, and so he was too busy for this.

"He's never here," said Katie, her anger boiling over. "He's always off doing something with the Order. He doesn't need to know! When we have something more concrete, we can go to him. Look, I know you are trying to help, but please, let's deal with this ourselves."

Hermione didn't look convinced and sat glowering for a second before nodding. Ginny exchanged a glance with Neville, who shrugged. Katie got the distinct impression that she was being humoured. Yet, she managed to stop herself objecting and returned her attention to the prophecy. Hermione's eyes had returned to the parchment; she began to read aloud.

"He shall come to you on swift wings, a stranger from an unholy land," she said. "I think we need to keep an eye out for anyone new, anyone we don't know." Hermione looked thoughtful, as if she was scanning her memory for anyone new who had arrived recently, or anyone from an 'Unholy Land'. She evidently drew a blank.

"He could be from Israel or Palestine," suggested Ron.

"Israel is the Holy Land," Katie corrected him. "Not the _un_holy land, though considering they haven't stopped shooting at each other since the second world war…anyway, that's beside the point. I doubt this stranger will be from the Middle East."

"The stranger from the unholy land," said Hermione. "I'm positive I've heard that expression before. Where on earth was it?" She leaned back into her chair, staring into space. Katie could almost see the cogs whirring.

"Whoever he is," said Ron, "he can't be good. Disaster apparently follows in his wake. But what does 'my last shall be rewritten, your future re-cast' mean?" Katie shrugged.

"Beware your guardians; each will tempt you to his own darkness," said Neville, reading the next line aloud.

"I have a feeling it is not talking about my aunt and uncle," said Katie.

"They are all male, whoever they are," Ron pointed out, "_his_ own darkness, not _their_ own, or _her _own. Also, it says 'his own', not 'the'. These guardians appear to both be dark."

"Could one be Riddle?" asked Neville. "He apparently guards you. And if he is, it's another reason not to tell him about the prophecy."

"He isn't dark," said Katie. "Unless you count his hair, but I doubt prophecies would trouble themselves over hair colour. It can't be Riddle, so who else? Any thoughts, Hermione?"

"No," she said. "There was a book called a Stranger in a Strange Land. It was about a boy who was raised on Mars by Martians. When he was almost grown-up he came to Earth. It was so different from his home world, so strange, and as it turns out he didn't belong there. Hence the title."

"Indiana Jones once said he was a pilgrim in an unholy land," said Neville all of a sudden. "I love that film – one thing Muggles definitely do better than us – entertainment, except Quidditch of course. Anyway, the thing is though, if this is a true prophecy, a message from beyond, it probably wouldn't reference literature or cinema."

"I think we are taking this a bit too literally," said Katie. "I think it is safe to assume that we will meet a stranger from some far distant shore, somewhere we think is evil or Godless. We also know that I have to beware my guardians. Now what about the next bit?"

"Choose wisely, chosen one," said Hermione. "That's pretty obvious. Your fate and the night are now entwined."

"God knows," said Katie.

"He isn't as strong as he seems to be. His life hangs in the balance but it is you who must choose for him, and with your choice he may forever be lost to this world," finished Hermione.

"Whose life hangs in the balance?" asked Ron. "Who is 'he'?" Katie had a suspicion that he was worried it might be him. "And what was that about the night?"

"Whoever it is," said Neville, "it sounds like you will have to choose whether or not he dies."

"Obviously no," said Katie. She wouldn't let anyone else die in this. Cormac would be the last!

"I fear it will not be that simple," said Hermione. "Fate wouldn't have warned you if it was an easy choice. We don't know who this man is or how important he is. We don't know what he has to do with this, though if it is this stranger, he may well be dark. We also don't know what he has to do with the night."

"We won't know exactly what it means until it happens," said Ginny, looking thoughtful.

"Really?" asked Katie, her voice oozing sarcasm. "I never realised…"

"My point," said Ginny, her tone defiantly calm, as if battling her own anger, "was that we can not guess what it means. You have two choices. Basically, you can face it or run from it. You can go searching for all Israelis in this country and make yourself paranoid, or you can wait, let them come to you. If you let things unfold, not tell Riddle, and see what happens, you may discover more. "

Katie paused, thinking about what had just been said. She didn't want to live in fear, anymore than she already was. No, Ginny was right – it was better to carry on, come what may.

"You're right, Ginny," conceded Katie. "Sorry." Ginny shrugged. She wasn't entirely happy with Katie's behaviour, but accepted the apology to maintain the peace.

Katie rested her elbows on her knees and leaned forwards. She was exhausted, and this prophecy was as vague as they come. None of it made sense, and it only served to add to her worries. She glanced around the room. The fire was burning, and the WWW salesmen were demonstrating the latest gadgets of the Weasley twins, suitable for Umbridge avoidance. How innocently they all went about their lives. How she envied them.

She glanced at the couple playing chess on the other side of the room. She could imagine herself as one of those pieces, with Riddle and Grindelwald moving them around the board, and her powerless to do anything else. Was she always to be a slave of their game? Couldn't she take charge of her own life? No, it seemed. There were too many others who would get hurt. How many pawns would be sacrificed?

Was she the king? Moving slowly, one step at a time, not being able to venture into check, where the other side might be able to attack her? Was Riddle the queen, darting in every direction, taking pieces and protecting her? The irony of the genders was quite amusing. Hermione would be the bishop, the one who kept her on track with her preaching from the good book, or rather a library full of them. But what of Ron and Neville? Were they the castles, her home who came in straight lines to save her? Were they the knights who moved in strange patterns through other pieces to ride in and save…

"Knights!" she exclaimed, sitting bolt upright. Hermione jumped as she did.

"Your fate and the knight's are entwined!" she repeated, her heart pounding and her face showing her excitement. "Knight with a 'k'. We will meet a knight." She looked around as the others took in her theory.

"Err…" said Ron, glancing at Neville who shook his head. "As far as I know, there are no knights in our world. Wizards don't officially exist, so we can't really be knighted."

"What about Sir Cadogan," asked Katie. "He's a knight."

"A k'nitwit more like," said Ron, deliberately pronouncing a 'k' that wasn't even there.

"He was a Muggle knight who stumbled across a dragon and so into our world," said Hermione. "He was not a wizard."

"But there are suits of armour all over the castle," said Katie, convinced she was right. "They were worn by knights."

"This is a castle," said Hermione, to Katie's ear condescendingly, "They're decoration. What good is a sheet of metal against a curse? With magic we can remove it, melt it, transfigure it, curse it, and God knows what else. They are for decoration, and Peeves' amusement." Katie grimaced in frustration. She was probably right, as usual. But Katie had been so convinced…

"How do we know a Muggle knight isn't going to come into this at some point?" asked Katie, racking her brain for another solution.

"We don't, but it seems so…unlikely," said Hermione.

"About as unlikely as having your parents killed when you were a baby, growing up constantly being stalked by the same man who most people thought was dead, and then being entered illegally into a tournament and your blood being used to bring him back to life, after he killed your friend in front of you. _That,_ is unlikely. By those standards, a Muggle knight seems laughably easy to imagine."

Katie was aware of how snappy her tone sounded, but she didn't care. Why was she so stressed these days? Lack of sleep, Riddle's ignoring her, generally Umbridge frustration. Her blood seemed to be boiling all the time now.

"Yeah," said Ron, "but…"

"Heads up!" hissed Neville. Katie turned to see Harry Potter come back into the room. He gave a small nod to a group of second years by the door, one of whom spoke to him, most likely welcoming him back. As Katie watched, Harry crossed the room and headed for the stairs. He was a few feet away when he paused.

XxXxX

Harry hesitated. What had seemed like a cold and easy decision while all alone on the opposite side of the castle was a little different when he could look into her eyes. He had spotted her instantly as he had stepped into the room; his eyes had been doing the instinctual search for a threat. But then something else had happened. The instincts of the Dark Knight were overruled by someone else. Harry Potter briefly returned.

The cold, calculated thought left him and his mind strayed ever so slightly into the depths of his memory. Seeing her sitting around with Ron, Hermione and Neville, Harry felt a deep pang of homesickness. It should be him seated there with his friends, not her. He should be back home, safe, with his friends. Hadn't he earned it?

It seemed so long ago that he had been with his true friends. After they came back from the Ministry, he had wanted to be alone. Oh, what a fool he had been. He should have valued every second he was with them. But he hadn't known he was about to be torn away from home.

Was Katie destined for the same fate? Would she be forced to see her godfather killed, just before being dragged to another world where she would have to fight her way out of hopeless situations, with no hope of returning home? He stared into her eyes across the room. There was fire in those eyes, a determined desire to go on. Harry saw himself in those eyes. Himself before all of this, when he was still just a student.

She didn't know how lucky she was. It was always the way. You never know how lucky you are until it is gone. In a few months, she would know what it was to suffer. She would know what it was like to be in Harry's shoes. _Poor girl. _Harry had often thought that he wouldn't wish his life on anyone. Now here was someone else, having been through more or less what he had. Yet she was still so…words failed him. Maybe it was his experience in Rose's world that had really changed him, but he saw her as just a child. She seemed so inexperienced compared to him._ Lucky girl. _

Harry looked her up and down, appraising her. The defiance was clear in her posture and her eyes, but there was fear behind them. She was slowly losing it. She was so close to despair. As tough an exterior as she tried to portray, there was fear, frailty, and sadness in those eyes. If it was identical to what Harry had been through: at this point in time, she wouldn't even know why Riddle was avoiding her or why Vold…Grindelwald was after her.

_Poor girl._

Harry knew exactly what she was feeling. Oh, how he had wanted someone to talk to, someone who knew what was happening, someone who could tell the difference between him and his reputation. It had been Dumbledore's ignoring him that had really been the hardest to take. Now Harry knew that he had been trying to protect him, but at the time, he had hated the headmaster. He still questioned the headmaster's methods, though he no longer doubted his intent.

Was Riddle the same? No – he was a cold-hearted bastard. When Katie found out, he would be as cold as he truly was. The man was only one step away from Voldemort. Harry wondered what had changed him, but realised that it was way down on his list of priorities to find out. He would take it as read that the man was a bastard and that was enough. He was a suspicious git and was making Harry's life much harder. Harry would need to keep his distance from Riddle.

Then again…

Suddenly a plan popped into Harry's head. There might be a way to keep an eye on Katie. Riddle didn't want him anywhere near Katie, but Harry was smarter than he was and had an ace up his sleeve. What if Harry were to keep her under surveillance? He would then be able to find out exactly what was happening. He may just have found a way to be in the room without her or Riddle realising it. What worked for Katie would in time work with Riddle as well. Harry could catch wind of any of Katie's little plans, or her worries about Harry, as soon as she had them. By her movements and her interactions with teachers, he might be able to find out more about Riddle. It would mean that he could come and go from almost any location at any time without arousing suspicion. However, the main point was that he would get advanced warning of her suspicions or plans for Harry. He could keep himself out of trouble. If he knew her movements, then he could plan his to avoid her. Knowledge was power and this would allow him to keep his ear to the ground.

His plan solidified in his mind. He checked his watch. He would wait until everyone was asleep.

XxXxX

Harry turned slowly back to face Katie. Uh-oh! She had been caught staring. Her initial reaction was to tear her eyes away, but she held fast, staring into his emerald green eyes. His head sunk slightly, but not into a nod. He seemed to be looking her up and down, appraising her. Something told Katie that he was not assessing her in the way most sixteen-year-old boys did, and she didn't start to blush as his eyes scanned her body. Instead she was positive that he was assessing something deeper, something inside her. His eyes seemed to penetrate her flesh, seeking what lay in her soul. It was a creepy stare.

After a second, he looked down to check his watch and then gave her a small nod. With that he turned and disappeared up the stairs.

"What was that all about?" asked Ron.

"No idea," said Katie. "But he gives me the creeps."

XxXxX

Katie sat on the windowsill, her back to the wall, her head turned and staring mournfully out of the window. The fires had been put out two hours ago, but on the still winter's night, the smell of burning was still in the air. The mist had come in from the lake, in absence of a wind to clear it. Veiled in a blanket of mist, the valley had an eerie, still appearance, and coupled with the faint smell of burning, the scene brought images of death to Katie's mind. She had seen the Thestrals as the carriages had arrived at the castle, bringing the returning students back. This had only acted to cement the feeling of death and hopelessness in her mind.

She yawned involuntarily as she gazed out over the window. It had been a long day, and in truth she was tired. She turned to glance at her bed, the curtains drawn back, casting shadows over the bed. It looked almost like a cave or a cell. She didn't want to admit it, but she feared sleep these days. She feared being awake, yet she feared going to sleep. It was a sad realisation, but her entire life was spent in fear.

By day she was in danger. Grindelwald was back, and she knew she currently topped his list of thorns in his proverbial side. She constantly had to look over her shoulder, just in case. She had enemies out there, and she didn't know who was working for Him. Anyone she met could potentially be here to kill her.

As if she didn't have enough to worry about with a homicidal maniac on her tail, there was the Ministry who had turned her into a laughing stock. She tried to put on a brave face, but it hurt. It hurt when you stood up for what was right, only to be shunned by the very people you were trying to protect. She was lonely. She could talk to Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Neville, Luna, and her friends, but in truth, she was alone. None of them understood – none of them came close.

A single tear ran down her cheek as she stared out the window over the forest, lit up by the nearly full moon. Above the blanket of clouds the valley was clear, bathed in moonlight with the dark peaks of hills rising from the sea of mist. She shivered in the cold air as another tear began to fall.

The Ministry and Grindelwald had turned her life into a living Hell, a prisoner in her own life. Even Riddle, who had always been there for her, was now not even looking at her. Neville, Hermione, Ron, and Ginny were friends, but none of them had been in the graveyard. None of them could see the Thestrals. There was no one who understood her. Who could she talk to? No one would understand, so she bottled it all up. She knew it had given rise to her newly found temper, but there was nothing she could do, no one she could turn to. What she wanted, now more than ever, was a hug. She wanted her mother to scoop her up in her arms, to protect her from the horrors of life.

That was a fate that had been stolen from her so many years ago, leaving a poor, scared girl all alone. And alone was how she found herself now, with no one to help her and no one to protect her. Now, more than ever. Last year she had been lucky not to be in this situation, but at the time, she had not appreciated it. It was the same the year before that and the year before that, which painted an ill picture of next year - if she even survived that long.

For Katie, it was like a horrible headache, one that kept pounding at her. During the day, she had the constant stares and the Occlumency lessons and then at night she had the dreams. The horrid nightmares of last year, the images of the Tournament, or McLaggen spread-eagled on the ground, the life having been sucked out of him in a flash of green light. And then there was the door, the endless dreams about the door, and the pain that followed. It had saved Mr Weasley, but it was taking its toll on her.

She wished it would end. She wished a guardian angel would appear and take her misery away.

Katie rose to her feet. While she feared her bed, she knew she had to sleep, and that she had to be up early tomorrow morning. She tiptoed over to her bed, cautious not to wake the others. If her dreams were too bad, she would wake them all later anyway. There was no point in making it worse. She climbed into bed and reached up to close the curtains, taking a side in each hand. She was about to pull them closed when there came a gentle tap on the window.

She released the curtain, sitting bolt upright, muscles tense, ready to move. She grabbed her wand and raised it, ready to curse whoever or whatever was out there. It couldn't be Grindelwald, could it? No, a male would not be able to enter the room.

Gently parting the curtains, she stood up, her feet making no sound on the thick carpet. She stepped away from the bed, her eyes doing a lap of the room. She could see nothing out of place.

_TAP!_

Katie spun around to face the sound. Her jaw dropped. On the ledge outside the now closed window sat a beautiful, fiery orange phoenix. As she stared at it, the bird bowed its head low, displaying its beautiful plumage. Katie opened the window, allowing the bird to soar in. It fluttered the short distance to her bedpost, but it still seemed to glide. Katie left the window and returned to her bed, staring at the new arrival.

"Who are you?" asked Katie aloud, albeit as a whisper. She extended a hand, and using the back of her fingers, she gently stroked the magnificent bird. She wouldn't have been surprised to have had it answer her question in plain English. Instead, the bird simply cocked its head, allowing her to stroke its soft, warm body.

Katie found herself smiling as she stroked the animal, its presence somehow soothing. It felt like the first time she had smiled in years. The bird simply sat still, its deep green eyes watching her intently as she stopped stroking it and drew the curtains. It didn't seem the least bit fazed as she drew the curtains; it remained in place, watching her as she climbed beneath the covers.

The phoenix stayed with her, and in its presence, she fell into a deep sleep, thinking that finally she had found a friend.

XxXxX

"_Erg!"_

Katie opened her eyes as the sound of chattering voices invaded her thoughts. As she was drawn from her dreams, she groaned and rolled over. Voices floated through the curtains; her dorm-mates were up. Katie shot a filthy look at the curtains in their general directions, and slammed her head back down, covering it with another pillow. She was knackered and did not want their bloody interruptions.

_Hang on!_

A thought suddenly occurred to her and she sat bolt upright. Last night, there had been no nightmares, no visions of a door, no nothing, just a deep slumber. What had brought that on? It certainly wasn't that bloody Occlumency. Truth be told, she had not even attempted to clear her mind the previous night. It must have been the phoenix.

_The phoenix?_

She looked towards the end of her bed where the phoenix had been perched last night. Where was it? Had it left? Had the other girls scared it away? Katie drew the curtains and jumped off the bed, walking barefoot out into the dormitory. She wore pyjama bottoms and a crop-top. She caught sight of herself in the mirror, but ignored her wild hair and general lybedraggled appearance. She looked towards the window, which was now closed and locked, though she had been sure it hadn't been her who had closed it.

She was suddenly aware that the other girls were all watching her. She looked over: Lindsay was showing the other two a set of photos which she had had done, hoping to become a model or something like that for Witch Weekly.

"Yes?" asked one of them.

"This is going to sound really odd," said Katie, throwing caution to the wind. "But there wasn't a bird in here when you got up this morning, was there?"

The girl gave her a bemused look, before shaking her head. Katie turned back to the window, wondering what had happened to her visitor. She would have to ask Grubbly-Plank about phoenixes and if it was normal for one to behave like that. With that in mind, she forwent a shower and threw on her uniform. She brushed her hair quickly and splashed water on her face to wake herself up. Katie considered makeup, but decided that time was more precious than pride. Looking slightly improved, she grabbed her bag and darted down the stairs in the direction of the Great Hall.

The others were already there and eating, and she quickly slid into a chair next to them. She was still panting from the run as she helped herself to some orange juice. As she drained the glass, she was aware of the others watching her.

"Rough night?" asked Neville.

"Quite the opposite," she replied, putting the glass down and catching her breath. She was tempted to add that it was the first decent night's sleep she had had in ages, but she didn't want to fuel their worries. The last thing she needed was more pity. Katie took a moment to catch her breath. At length, she spoke.

"Last night," she began, "I was…lying awake." She felt it best not to admit she had been up late, crying and praying for a miracle. "There was a tapping sound coming from the window. I opened it, and a phoenix flew in."

"Ooo," squealed Hermione and Ginny together. "A phoenix…wow, a real live phoenix. What did it do?" Neville and Ron looked impressed, though neither squealed; Neville, as it was unlike him, and Ron, as his mouth was full of scrambled egg. Ginny, on the other had, was practically bobbing up and down in excitement.

"Nothing much," Katie said. To be fair, it hadn't really done much, just kept her company. But in truth, that was all she needed. "It kind of just sat there, at the end of my bed, until I fell asleep." And a peaceful sleep it had been. Definitely a good influence.

"Awww," fawned Ginny dreamily. "I wish I had a phoenix."

"What do you mean 'had'?" asked Katie. "It wasn't like I owned it." Her feelings towards the animal were slightly mixed. She had felt a connection, but still felt as if it was a wild animal, not a pet and not hers; just a friend who happened to be in the right place at the right time.

"You can never 'own' a phoenix," said Hermione, falling into the tone of voice she used when reciting a passage from a book. "The phoenix chooses to spend time with the witch or wizard. It would have chosen to come to you, not the other way around."

"Is it still there?" asked Ginny excitedly. "Can we see it?"

"It's gone," said Katie, shaking her head. "By the time I woke up, it had gone. Anita bloody Fleming must have scared it off with her fascinating tales regarding the contents of her boyfriend's underpants." She grimaced at the thought of the other girl's stupidity and shallowness. "I lost track of which boyfriend it is these days," she added.

"Woodward," said Ron, through a rasher of bacon. "Apparently he now has the pleasure," he finished, bobbing his eyebrows up and down in a suggestive manner.

"Never on a first date," said Ginny, smiling innocently.

"I must say that sounds a bit odd," said Hermione, her brow furrowed in thought. She had that look that said a trip to the library was imminent.

"You would on a first date?" asked Ginny innocently.

Hermione ignored the comment, though Katie noticed that Ron had coloured somewhat at this talk. Whether it was Ginny's frank use of English or Hermione's response was uncertain. Either way, Katie dismissed it, certain that Hermione was sticking to the important part of the conversation – the phoenix.

Hermione continued: "Phoenixes aren't the sort of creatures to be startled by an idiot girl and her carnal tales. Once they show themselves to a person, they usually stick around, rarely leaving until…the end of the line."

"Till death us do part," added Ginny unhelpfully.

Katie was glad that at least Hermione was sticking to the pressing matter at hand. However, the mood was suddenly broken by the end-of-the-line comment. After the last few years, she would rather not think about death.

"They are also supposed to be mystical," said Neville. "My mum used to tell me about them when I was only yay-high." He held his hand up two feet above the floor. "I don't know if she was just spinning fantasy tales, because I was only a kid at the time, but they are supposed to come when needed, but to be a free spirit. Almost like a higher purpose, a higher being - as if called from the spirit world to guide you."

"That is definitely fantasy," said Hermione. "Romanticism at its worst. There are no other worlds. Phoenixes are not messengers from beyond. We can only assume, Katie, that this phoenix will return when you have need of it. It will be watching over you, rest assured. I am almost certain that you haven't seen the last of the phoenix."

"Thanks, Hermione," she said. It was a weight off her mind. "I'm glad," she continued. "It was relaxing, soothing to have it near me. When I looked at it, those eyes stared back at me with comprehension. I mean, you could see in its eyes that it was thinking. It was like looking into the eyes of another human, another intelligent being. There was something almost familiar about it. And it stopped any nightmares."

"Did it sing you to sleep?" asked Neville, failing to hide a grin. "Sing you a lullaby? Rock-a-bye Katie on the tree top, when the wind blows…."

"I'll knock off your block!" she finished, cuffing him on the arm and shaking her head, but smiling none the less. She had had to resist the temptation to rhyme 'rock' with another part of his anatomy, and hit that instead, but she wasn't genuinely angry. "Seriously, though," she continued. "It was just soothing to have it around, and, well, with all that's happened lately, it's the best thing that has happened in a long time."

"I wouldn't tell too many people," said Ron. "Educational Decree Number twenty-whatever-it's-up-to-now will be that you aren't allowed to own anything that might cheer you up."

"Umbridge couldn't control a phoenix," said Hermione.

"Wouldn't stop her trying," said Katie. Ron was right – she'd try to ban it, try to kill it as well probably. There was no depth that she would not sink to.

"Heads up," said Neville quickly, glancing at the door. Katie turned her head, trying to be subtle. Harry Potter had just entered the room and had slid onto the bench at the end, near the door. As he reached for the cornflakes, he stifled a yawn. His hair was scruffy, and his eyes had bags underneath them. It was clear that he had been up most of the night.

"Someone didn't get a lot of sleep," said Neville, echoing Katie's own thoughts. "I wonder what he was up to. I didn't notice him. Ron?"

"Nope," said Ron. "He went to bed, and we didn't hear a peep from him."

"Above your snoring," announced Ginny. "He could have been playing the bugle all night, and you wouldn't have noticed." That may have been the case, but Katie agreed with Neville. What the hell was Harry Potter up to?

"Hmm," said Katie. "There is something fishy going on with him. He has changed so much, he's secretive, and he was up all night. What was he doing? Are you sure he was in his bed?"

"Well," said Ron. "we saw him head up to bed just after ten. We went up a few minutes later, and he was just getting into bed. He even said good night. I didn't notice him get out, and no one opened the door, I don't think."

"Well, he's up to something," said Katie. "I wonder what?"

"Oh Merlin, she's on the warpath," muttered Ginny, earning herself a glare.

"I'd say he's got bigger problems than just your inquisitive nature," said Neville, staring over her shoulder. "If looks could kill..."

Katie turned to face the direction Neville was looking at. At the Slytherin table, Malfoy was watching Harry like a predator, his steely grey eyes locked on the boy eating at the end of the table. His jaw was set and he looked like he would like nothing better than to throttle Harry. The boy in question sat obliviously eating his cornflakes, staring into space. He seemed completely unaware, but after having seen him and Malfoy last week, Katie was fairly sure that Harry held no fear for Malfoy. This was completely unjustified, as Harry was nowhere near Malfoy's level of magic and a duel would end painfully for Harry.

As odd as the boy had become, he was still the same old Harry, and he still was in need of protection. He was one who would definitely benefit from a little training, but until she knew more, Potter was not setting foot in the Room of Requirement.

XxXxX

Today was not going to be enjoyable. Harry was to be back in lessons, proper lessons, for the first time in what seemed like an eternity. He had found all the books he needed in the trunk that was apparently his, and was prepared as he was ever going to be. Ever since he had been caught up in this unholy mess, he had given so little thought to lessons. They seemed so…insignificant. What were these lessons worth, when life was teaching him the ways of the world better than Severus Snape ever could? Well, at least Snape wasn't here. Harry didn't know where he was, and he didn't care. Whatever rock he was hiding under, Harry hoped it was never kicked over. _Who would I least like to teach me,_ he wondered, _Snape or Riddle?_

Harry hadn't even glanced at the books he now held since he had been back, and so had next to no idea what to expect in these lessons. He had been whisked away before starting his NEWTs, so this would be his first taste. He was going to be thrown in at the deep end. He briefly considered boycotting the lessons, but he did not wish to draw attention to himself. Hence, as nine o'clock neared on Monday morning, Harry threw the books he needed into his bag, pocketed his wand, and headed down towards the dungeons. As sod's law and fateful cock-up would have it, he had ended up with double Potions to begin with, followed by double Defence Against the Dark Arts after lunch. Luckily he had the remainder of the afternoon off.

Any other time or place, having double Defence might have cheered him up, but given the teacher, Harry had a nasty feeling that he was not in for a pleasant day. He would have to concentrate on that free period in the afternoon to pull him through the lessons of the day. The free time would not afford him a rest – he had work to do. Officially he would have to catch up with missed school work. Unofficially, he would be taking a quick trip to London.

Harry had no idea what this Horace Slughorn was like as a teacher, but could not imagine him being any worse than Snape. Then again, as head of Slytherin house, he was hardly going to be nice. From what Harry had heard, he was alright, just very orientated towards his favourites and the so called Slug Club. Harry had no idea what this club was or did, but judging from the name, it had to be about as exciting as a meeting of Flobberworm Appreciation Society, if such a thing even existed.

When Harry entered the room, most of the students were already there, unpacking various supplies and equipment. Harry slid onto an empty desk quite near the front and began to remove his things from his bag. It was quite a novel experience being back in lessons. All the little things like spelling, uniform, homework, and revision all seemed so trivial when compared to saving the lives of millions across two, now three, different worlds. When his entire life seemed to be life or death, how important was homework, really?

Part of him, a part that sounded suspiciously like Hermione, knew that to become an Auror, he needed to study, plus the life skills learned here would carry him through life; but compared to Dark Lords and inter-dimensional travel, it didn't feature high on his list of priorities.

"Hey, Potter," drawled a voice from the back. "What are you going to do for us today then, melt your cauldron or set your pants on fire, perhaps?"

Harry ignored the comment and continued unpacking, having no idea what he would actually need.

"Potter," snapped Malfoy. "I'm talking to you, are you deaf?"

"Pardon?" asked Harry innocently, unable to resist. He felt a glimmer of satisfaction as Malfoy's jaw clenched. Malfoy opened his mouth to speak again, but quickly shut it as Slughorn waddled into the room.

"Ah, here already," he beamed. His eyes passed around the room, coming to a stop on Harry. "Ah, Mr Potter, welcome back." Not knowing what else to do, Harry nodded.

"Right, today we will begin a new section on Jaredain's principles of potency," he announced. "Can anyone tell me the nature of Jaredain's studies?" No one moved. They all looked down, avoiding eye contact and hoping that they were not the one to be asked. Harry glanced around the room, wondering why a certain young witch was not answering.

Slughorn seemed to be thinking along the same lines. "Where is Miss Granger?" he asked the silent class. Harry looked at Ron and Neville. "No idea, sir," said Ron, shrugging.

Just then, the doors flew open and Hermione ran in, panting.

"Sorry I'm late, professor," she managed to say between breaths. "I had to see Professor McGonagall."

"Of course, of course," said Slughorn, looking as though he did vaguely remember that she would be late. "I was just wondering where you had got to. What fortuitous timing. Please take a seat." Harry was suddenly aware that the only spare seat in the room was next to him and sure enough, a second later, Hermione slid onto the bench next to him, and began to unpack.

"I was just saying, Miss Granger," said Slughorn, "that we are now beginning a new section on Jaredain's research." Hermione seemed to understand as she nodded. "Could you please tell the class what Jaredain was researching?"

"He…" she took a breath to steady herself. "He was looking into the correct dosage, and how to calculate it based on the ingredients and recipient," she announced. "Too much of a potion, even an antidote, can be dangerous, so he tried to find a way to calculate dosage based on the recipient's size and weight and the ingredients of the potion, thus making the testing of new potions much safer and reducing accidental deaths in hospitals by assuring safe dosages."

"Excellent," said Slughorn. "Now, unfortunately, this first session will be on the theory and you won't get to start brewing until next time." A collective groan went around the room. Harry instantly regretted having gotten everything out of his bag.

"Now, before we begin, we need some simple ingredients," said Slughorn. "Mr Potter, can you pop into my office and get me some crushed beetles, Ghost-Lily roots, and some giant squid ink? That should be enough to start with."

Harry rose from his seat and walked past Slughorn into the office. He could hear the professor talking in the other room.

"The first thing we shall do when mister Potter returns will be to look at the chemical and then magical properties of the ingredients and their effects on a given measure of human bone marrow. The stems cells contained therein will be enough for us to gauge a potion's effect on any cell in the entire body. From here it is possible to give each ingredient a rating on a standardised scale and then we can begin to compare potions."

Harry opened the supply cupboard and scoured the drawers and bottles for the ingredients. It took him perhaps fifteen seconds to find them all. He turned to leave, both hands full, using his backside to edge the cupboard door shut. As he did so, his eyes fell on the other store cupboard, which was slightly open. In the bottom, staring Harry in the face, was a pile of _Advanced Potion Making_ books. Suddenly an idea filled his mind.

He moved to the cupboard quickly and put the ingredients on the floor. He sank to his knees and opened the cupboard. He picked up the first book and opened it. There was nothing but the print. Harry cast it aside and picked up the next – nothing. Again he picked up another book, only to find it empty.

_Come on, where are you?_ he thought.

"Are you alright in there, Potter?" called Slughorn.

_Where is it? _Harry cast the next one aside and picked up the sixth book. He opened it again to find nothing but the print. There was a scrape from in the classroom, and Harry's heart began to race. That was a chair scraping the floor. Slughorn had gotten up from his chair and was coming in after him. He needed to hurry.

Another blank! Harry threw it back in the cupboard as the footsteps sounded outside. He picked up another book, and opened it. _Yes! _The inside was covered in neat writing, additions and spells. Harry thrust it up his jumper and pushed the cupboard closed, just as Slughorn's bald head came around the corner.

"Are you okay, Potter?" asked Slughorn. Harry was still kneeling on the floor.

"Er, yes sir," said Harry innocently. "I was just tying my shoelace."

"Well hurry up, Potter," said Slughorn impatiently. "You are holding up my lesson." Harry's heart was racing, but he managed to appear calm. He was relieved, but managed to keep it from his face.

Harry mumbled an apology and stood up, handing Slughorn the three ingredients he had acquired. The professor nodded and disappeared back into the classroom. Harry took a deep breath. He shrunk the book under his jumper and slid it into his pocket before walking back out into the classroom and over to his seat.

At the front, Slughorn was fiddling with the ingredients. Harry sat back down next to Hermione, who had finish unpacking and was unscrewing the top of her pot of ink.

"Morning," said Harry, following suit, getting ready to copy down notes. "You all right? You look knackered." She was still red in the face and breathing quickly.

"I ran from McGonagall's office," said Hermione, avoiding the question. Harry let it go. He wasn't here to find out where she had been. However, there was something she could do for him .He had to move carefully, though. Softly, softly, catchy monkey.

As Slughorn began to drone on about potions, Harry turned to Hermione again. "How have you been?" he asked, keeping his tone light and friendly.

"Fine," she replied in true English fashion. She was glancing from the blackboard to her parchment on which she had already started to make notes. He was mildly annoyed at her answer. 'Fine' was a way to avoid an answer, and also cut the conversation short. It was like 'whatever', the ultimate argument stopper. How does one come back from 'whatever'? Anyhow, Harry needed to drive this conversation forward.

"Really?" he asked. Hermione looked up from her notes and looked him square in the eyes. She hesitated for a second before answering.

"Well, you know Ron's dad was hurt just before Christmas?" asked Hermione. Harry nodded – he hadn't, but he had surmised that it would happen eventually, or something similar to it. Hermione continued, "That was a bit scary, but yeah, generally good, despite Umbridge's best attempts to get us down."

"Tell me about it," muttered Harry, though his mind was elsewhere. So Mr Weasley had been attacked, had he? They had all gone to St Mungo's? But they were all back here before Harry arrived on New Year's Day. It must have happened sooner than it had in his world, before Christmas. It seemed Katie was better than him at Occlumency. Harry grimaced at the thought, but accepted that he hadn't been brilliant at it. Anyhow, it did no good to dwell on the past. He needed to look to his future and to do that, he needed Hermione's help.

"How are lessons?" he asked, gently pushing her in the right direction. Harry knew that this was his chance to size her up for helping him. He needed to be careful, subtly manoeuvre her and let her make the conversation. He needed to give her just enough rope to hang herself with, so to speak.

"What, since you disappeared?" she asked, looking slightly suspicious. Harry nodded. "Well, Defence is still awful, and we don't learn anything. The rest are more or less fine, as long as Umbridge isn't inspecting the teacher – were you around when she started?"

Harry nodded.

"Well yeah, aside from when she's there, the others are fine."

"Even Arithmancy?" asked Harry, making his move.

"Look," said Hermione, rolling her eyes – her tone had turned firm. Harry grimaced inwardly. Had he blown it? "I know everyone says that it's a boring geeky subject, but it is interesting! I don't go around saying what you like is boring, do I? Just let me be!"

"Easy, Hermione," said Harry quickly. "I never said it was boring, I just know that it is hard. NEWT must be nearly impossible. I'm impressed you can cope – I wouldn't stand a chance, even at the OWL." Harry had to move carefully. The gentle flattery should hopefully put her back on track. _Come on, Hermione, bite!_

After a second, she gave him a small smile, "Sorry I snapped," she said. "I'm just very tired."

"I can understand that," he said, nodding. He really could. Having spent several hours in the girls' dormitory last night (and not in the way most boys would like), he was shattered.

"But you're right," said Hermione, seemingly happy to talk about her subject. "It is hard and Professor Vector pushes us at a quick pace." Yes! Harry felt a rush of excitement. She had bitten and was moving the conversation herself. Hook, line, and sinker.

"It must be really useful," said Harry, again using flattery to keep her on track. "I mean, from what I hear, from a drop of blood or a bit of magic, you can work out a person's soul or magical core or something like that, can't you?" He was practically shaking with excitement. _Come on, Hermione, tell me that you can get me home!_

Hermione smiled and shook her head; it was the look a mother gave her overzealous child. This was not what Harry wanted to see. A chill ran down his spine and it took all his concentration to stop his disappointment from showing.

"Yes, you can," she said, "but that's a little beyond NEWTs, don't you think, Harry?" No, no, Hermione had to be able to help! She just had to!

"Even for you?" asked Harry, struggling to hide the disappointment, or the huge gap that had opened up as his stomach clenched tight. He tried one last stab at flattery, but already knew the answer. A sickening feeling spread through him as he realised that his great plan was in tatters.

"That particular discipline is purely theoretical and highly experimental," Hermione informed him. "The only people who would really do anything like that are the Unspeakables." Harry shivered involuntarily. He had no desire to visit the Department of Mysteries. It seemed that every time he went there, someone was killed in front of him. The Unspeakables gave him the creeps, but it seemed that once again, he would have to brave the Department of Mysteries.

"Oh well," said Harry, smiling outwardly. "At least you are enjoying it." Inside he was screaming. His plan was in jeopardy. If Unspeakables were the only ones who would experiment with that kind of magic, Harry would need to convince one of them to part with their knowledge, and that wouldn't be easy as he didn't know any of them. Also, he needed one lucid enough to use his blood and wand to do the equation. He couldn't control one of them, so he had to convince one. One of them would have to do it voluntarily. This was not going to be easy.

"Potter! Granger! Pay attention," said Slughorn suddenly. Hermione shot Harry a glare, as clearly it was all his fault that they had been caught. Harry grimaced.

"Sorry, sir."

Hermione didn't speak to him for the rest of the lesson, but that wasn't exactly a problem. He had learned what he needed to know and that was enough. She was of no further use to him. He had the problem of the Unspeakable to sort out, but his first priority should still be the acquisition of the key. He would go to London tonight after lessons had finished. The Unspeakable was a problem for another day.

After another two hours of scribbling down notes, Harry's wrist was aching. He could use a sword for what seemed like ages without aching too much, but this much writing was hurting his wrist. He was so unused to using a quill that his muscles ached from the effort and his writing was so untidy it resembled a four-year-old's.

_I might as well have written in crayon,_ he noted.

He ended up massaging his wrist for the rest of the lunch break between spooning ratatouille into his mouth. His head was spinning with potions and a measure called a mol (without an 'e'). It was linked to Muggle Chemistry, apparently, and could be used to work out quantity and subsequently concentration. Harry noted that it 'could' be used to calculate concentration, but not that he could use it. The lesson might as well have been in Swahili. He wasn't looking forward to his real NEWTs back home.

Things didn't get any better after lunch as he headed up to the Defence Against the Dark Arts room, already knowing what he would find. As he took his seat, he could already hear the footsteps approaching down the corridor.

Harry was suddenly reminded of the Star Wars march. He remembered Dudley watching the film and then dressing in black, painting a stick red and then hitting Harry with it, singing the Imperial March. Harry was humming it in his mind as the toad swept into the room. She strutted to the front and turned to address the class, the stupid girly smile on her chubby face.

"Good afternoon, class," said Umbridge in her shrill girly voice.

"Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge," replied the class.

"Wands away." No one moved as no one had taken their wand out. "Right, I want you to read chapter twenty-two and we shall discuss it once you are done. There will be no need to talk."

Harry opened his book and began to read. He had managed three lines when his mind began to wander. On the parchment he had ready, he wrote Dolores Jane Umbridge at the top and beneath it he began to jumble the letters around to alleviate his boredom. The class read in silence for nearly half an hour before Umbridge decided it was time for the debate.

By this time, Harry had read about a page and a half between playing with anagrams. The most interesting thing he had learned from this lesson so far was that 'Dolores Jane Umbridge' was a perfect anagram of 'Burdensome Jailer Dog' which was quite appropriate, and that if he just used 'Dolores Umbridge', it was a perfect anagram of 'Murder Old Bogies'. Harry wasn't sure about the spelling of the last one, but it made him smile in a class that really needed some cheer.

Harry yawned. The class was so boring that his heart rate had slowed right down and he just wanted to go to sleep. The jailer dog had risen from her chair and was standing at the front. When she spoke, Harry didn't take a word of it in. It was the usual drivel, and looking around the class, not even Hermione was paying attention. Reading the text almost verbatim after the class had read it was a poor way of teaching.

It was such a relief when the bell rang. Harry's eyelids had been heavy for the past forty-five minutes and he was on the verge of dropping off. As the bell sounded, he threw his books back into his bag and made for the exit. He had no lesson final period and that gave him the perfect excuse for a trip to London. He just needed to change his clothes, as his uniform would identify him, and Borgin must not learn who he was. It was 16:00 now and at this time of January it was dark by 17:00. Harry had no desire to visit the shop in daylight. He would wait another forty-five minutes or so. That gave him time to get changed and to store the Half Blood Prince's book somewhere safe.

It occurred to Harry halfway up the stairs that Flourish and Blotts would be as good as useless, but it couldn't hurt to check them briefly. However, he was well aware that his best chance of success was Knockturn Alley. Last time he had been there, he hadn't noticed any book shops. In fact, he felt it was most likely that the only place he would get such dark material was from a black marketer. He knew just the shop. However, the shopkeeper was not likely to be helpful. They way Harry saw it, he had two options – masquerade as a Death Eater, or bully it out of him. Since Harry didn't have a Dark Mark, or even knew what Grindelwald's symbol looked like, posing as a Death Eater would be unrealistic. If the conman asked him a question to prove it, Harry couldn't even produce information on this world generally, let alone on the Dark Lord whom he had never even seen. No, he decided, he would need to bully Borgin into compliance.

It was time for a certain shopkeeper to receive a visit from the Dark Knight.

XxXxX

"Three hundred and seventy-five galleons," said Borgin happily to himself. Gowan was a simpleton, a thug, and a loser, but he was damn good at what he did. He had managed to convince Alison Swinley to part with her family's diamond timepieces for less than four hundred galleons, when he knew full well that they were worth nearer to one thousand. A small smirk crept across his lips. He checked his watch; it was just past five.

The sun faded behind the rooftops, extinguishing the last source of light and plunging the shop into shadow. Borgin raised his wand lazily, and a lamp burst into life, illuminating the room. Borgin loved the way that gold sparkled in firelight at the best of times, and the contents of his till now glistened as he crossed to the door to flip the sign to 'Closed'. He turned back to the till and the diamond timepieces that stood on the counter beside them. In the firelight, they reflected spots of light all over the shop like a disco ball.

It had been a good day, mused Borgin. He would put it all in the safe and then nip down to the pub for a quick drink, and then maybe Hockden's Corner, or hooker's den as it was known. Why should he not treat himself tonight, after such a profitable day?

_Tap! Tap!_

Borgin turned around and stared at his front door. Through the glass he could see a figure in a black cloak and hood. The man was short and thin. His face was completely hidden by the cloak, but he stood unmoving just outside the door.

"For Merlin's sake," cursed Borgin. "CAN'T YOU READ? I'M CLOSED!" he shouted through the glass to the figure in black. Borgin slid the till closed with a bang, and then began to move the diamonds. All the time he was watching the figure in his peripheral vision. After ten seconds, the man had still not moved. As Borgin looked up at the stranger once more, the figure raised a gloved hand and rapped again upon the glass of the door.

Borgin slammed his fist down in frustration. He turned to face the figure and approached the door. The stranger stood motionless as he approached, completely unfazed by Borgin's hostile manner or tone.

"WHAT?" snapped Borgin as he neared the door. "THE SIGN TOO SMALL? I'M CLOSED!"

"You have something I need," said the figure softly, though the whisper seemed to pass straight through the glass. His voice was soft and sounded young – he was barely more than a boy. Borgin could have laughed. Whoever this tosser was, he was hardly intimidating and hardly a threat.

"And I'll still have it tomorrow," said Borgin icily. "Come back then, now piss off!" He pointed through the glass and up the road towards the exit. "Go!"

"Very rude for a shopkeeper," said the figure coldly. "Last chance."

"What are you going to do?" asked Borgin, resisting the urge to laugh at this kid. "Tell mummy?" The boy thought he could threaten and intimidate Borgin? Hardly. Borgin had powerful friends – if this kid did so much as graffiti a window, Borgin would see to it that he spent the rest of the year in agony. Still, better safe than sorry; Borgin reached under his robes, grasping his wand just in case the foolish kid tried something.

To his great surprise, the figure took two steps back into the gloom and disappeared into the shadows on the far side of the narrow street. Borgin stared into the gloom where the boy had stood seconds before. It seemed deserted.

_Ha!_ thought Borgin._ I knew he was bluffing. _The kid had run away. If he returned, then Borgin would break his legs, but for now, the kid wasn't worth a second thought. He tucked his wand back into his pocket. Smirking to himself, he turned back to the till.

_OOF!_

He turned straight into the figure in black. Borgin didn't have time to think before the figure hurtled into him, forcing him back against the wall, a forearm pressed into Borgin's neck. The shopkeeper didn't even have the breath to cry out as the figure drove a knee into his stomach. Borgin lost his bearings as the figure pulled him away from the wall. He was vaguely aware of the room spinning before he landed painfully on his back, the impact sending up a cloud of dust.

Borgin coughed feebly as the boot weighed into his chest. The figure stood over him, the black cloak concealing the intruder's face. Borgin stared helplessly up at the kid, no, the man, wishing he could get his hand to his wand.

The intruder lifted his boot and Borgin moved slowly backwards along the floor, his eyes never leaving the stranger. The man took a step closer, towering over Borgin, who was retreating on hands and knees like a crab.

_DONK!_

Borgin's head hit the counter. He cursed loudly and fell backwards, clutching his head. The figure stood over him, staring down, unmoving, unrelenting.

Borgin turned around, grabbing the counter to help himself to his feet. With his back to the stranger, he dusted himself off in a big gesture, disguising the fact that his hand was heading to his wand. As his fingers grasped the wood, he spun around, his arm coming up to aim at the intruder, but he never made it.

In the whirl of a cloak, the stranger clamped his gloved hand over Borgin's arm, twisting sharply. Borgin felt his wrist snap and the smooth wood slide helplessly through his fingers. He cried out in pain as the stranger withdrew his wand. There was a flash of light and Borgin felt his feet leave the ground before his back slammed into a glass cabinet.

The pane shattered under his weight and his head hit the wooden shelf inside. Crying out in pain, he fell forward, his broken wrist doing nothing to absorb his landing. As he hit the cold hard floor face first, objects from the cabinet began to rain down around him, some of them highly cursed.

Borgin lay covered in dust, bleeding from where the glass had cut his face on its way to the floor. He clutched his useless hand, whimpering in the darkness as the stranger took another step towards him, broken glass splintering under his feet. The crunching of his footsteps echoed around the shop, even drowning out the throbbing of Borgin's wrist and the thundering beats of his heart which pounding in his chest.

The stranger raised a hand and Borgin was yanked up by his collar and dangled helplessly in front of the intruder.

XxXxX

Harry stood before Borgin, who was secured in midair, unable to move. Harry's cloak was pulled in tightly around him. He had folded his bandana out and wrapped it around the bottom half of his face like the Scarlet Pimpernel. It was enough to protect his identity from the shopkeeper, who in this world would never have met him anyway, but it was best to play it safe.

He hadn't actually wanted any of this. He had been to Flourish and Blotts first, but naturally they didn't stock the sort of books he needed. He had checked Knockturn Alley for any bookshops and had not found one. That left only one option in Harry's mind – the conniving, swindling crook, Borgin. Harry knew what the man was like and the suffering he had caused others, with his dodgy deals and intimidation. As such, he felt no pity for the man now dangling in front of him like a worm on a hook. He hadn't even felt bad as he had felt the man's wrist break under his grasp.

Borgin's eyes were wide as he stared at Harry, his eyes filled with fear and rage. Harry looked around the shop. The shelves were full of various paraphernalia, and at the back he could clearly see a few lines of bookshelves. However, there were too many for him to go through alone. He would need Borgin's help. That meant he needed to convince him to help. He had already built up a Death Eater persona, so it was probably best to continue intimidating Borgin. The man was probably a Death Eater anyway, so if he thought he was working in the service of the Dark Lord, he might be reasonable.

"You have something I need," said Harry, making his voice a hoarse whisper, and much deeper than his own. He wanted to appear both older and completely different from his true self. Hopefully Borgin wouldn't have sussed his youth.

"Go to hell!" spat Borgin. He leaned his head back and then flung it forward trying to spit at Harry. The ball of phlegm landed on Harry's cloak, but he didn't care. Harry flicked his wrist upwards and Borgin rocketed towards the ceiling, slamming his head into the plaster, unleashing a cloud of dust. It seemed that Borgin was not going to play ball.

With that, Harry, twisted his hand in a flicking motion and Borgin fell forward, and hurtled upside down through the air, his back slamming into the far wall. Free from the spell, he crumpled head-first to the ground. He had only a second's pause before once again he was yanked up by his collar.

"You have a book that I need," repeated Harry. "And I need your help to find which one."

"I ain't helpin' you!" sneered Borgin. Harry hesitated; he had hoped it wouldn't come to this. He didn't like deliberately causing pain and highly disapproved of torture, having been on the receiving end himself. However, this was an emergency. He had to get home. His hand shot out and grabbed Borgin's broken wrist, squeezing it hard.

Borgin's head whipped back and his eyes bulged. He screamed in agony. Harry felt the bones move beneath the flesh as he gripped. He felt Borgin tense and begin to shake as the screams echoed in his ears. _Someone will hear this!_

"Hush!" said Harry, concentrating on a Silencing Charm. Borgin's voice left him; he screamed and screamed but no sound came out. After a few seconds, Harry released Borgin, not wishing to cause further suffering. However, he had to keep up the pretence.

"Think carefully about your next answer, Borgin, it may be your last," said Harry, his tone icy cold. It was the Dark Knight speaking. "I need a book. It is Greek, dating back perhaps two millennia. It concerns dark and experimental magic of the time, specifically to do with the nature of the world, time, and space."

Borgin looked up at him and then around the room.

"Look at me, Borgin!" hissed Harry, stepping closer. He grabbed Borgin's chin and twisted his head so that Borgin was looking at Harry, or rather at a pair of eyes visible beneath a hood and above a mask. "Stop focusing on escape. Where is the book?"

Borgin's eyes flicked left and right in panic and then back to Harry. He seemed to have realised that escape was impossible. He took a deep breath. Harry released the Silencing Charm.

"I don't have anything Greek."

"DON'T LIE TO ME!" hissed Harry dangerously, raised his wand to Borgin's arm in the threatening gesture.

"I'm not!" begged Borgin, his body beginning to shake. "I don't have anything Greek." Harry felt the sinking feeling return. First, Hermione couldn't help him and now he was failing to get his hands on the key. This plan was ruined and he would never get out of this world. He felt anger and frustration boil inside him.

"Then I have no further use for you," said Harry icily, moving his wand to Borgin's chest, the tip mere inches from the man's heart. He hoped Borgin would come out with something. This was a deadly bluff. If Borgin called it, this conversation was over. Showing a refusal to kill would undermine his persona.

"Wait!" cried the shopkeeper to Harry's relief. "I don't have anything Greek, but I may have something on time and space." Harry's ears pricked up. He had something useful after all. This day may not have been a complete disaster.

"What?" he asked, stepping closer.

"It's a journal," spluttered Borgin, his mouth now full of blood. Harry must have hit him harder than he had thought. "I came by it a few months back. Some old bird who had the finest pair of…"

"The book, Mr Borgin," said Harry firmly, raising his wand in a threatening manner.

"Anyway, her husband was into all that weird stuff; time, space, the universe, beyond," he continued. "Like a hobby, she said. More like an obsession – the guy was nuts. Anyway, the book catalogues his research." That sounded promising. A scientist doing research into time and space. If he was in the least bit competent, he might have something useful in his diary.

"Where is it?" he hissed.

"It's in the back," said Borgin, gesturing with his eyes to the back room.

Alarm bells went off in Harry's mind. This didn't feel right. The shop front was open, safe, but the back was Borgin's territory. Harry certainly didn't trust him. Dare he risk entering the back rooms? There could be spells, traps, other people, and only God knew what else. Harry hesitated for a second. At worst, he could flame out.

"Show me," he said after a second. It was a risk, but he needed that book. If he left without it, Borgin would have it destroyed, or worse, let someone know that someone was after it. Harry didn't think he had a choice. He released the spell and Borgin fell to his feet. Holding his broken arm close to protect it, Borgin staggered off towards the back.

"Be careful, Borgin," Harry reminded him. "If I smell a rat, you'll be dead before you hit the floor, got it?"

Borgin squeaked in response.

The back of Borgin and Burkes was a complete contrast to the front. The shop floor was dank, dusty, and cold, which created the perfect mood for a shop selling what it did. The back, however, was cleaner and more orderly. There was a large oak desk topped with a sheet of red leather. A lamp was burning, casting flickering orange shadows around the room. There was a pile of parchment on the desk piled high and the shelves above the desk were filled with folders and files. On the far wall were more shelves, this time full of various artefacts. On the desk there was also a metal toolbox and in the middle, various pieces that looked like the inside of clock. There were various cogs and screws neatly arranged and several small and highly irregular-looking spanners laid around the parts. It was so easy to forget that aside from being a heartless and greedy businessman, Borgin was also highly skilled at what he did. If a mind so bright had a slightly stronger conscience, he would have been a good ally.

"Where?" asked Harry.

Borgin crossed to the far side of the room where there was a low table covered in piles of books. He began to rummage as best he could considering the pain and that he only had use of one arm. Harry kept his wand aimed at him. He silently stepped five feet to his left. If Borgin suddenly turned to try to curse him, his memory would have him cursing in the wrong direction.

"Here," croaked the shopkeeper after a few minutes. He held a small red book out towards Harry. The pages were rumpled and it looked as if it had been in the wars. It did look like a diary, and in that respect, it made Harry suspicious. He remembered the last diary he had come across. He wasn't going to make the same mistake again.

"Open it," he said, aiming the wand at Borgin. The shopkeeper did so without hesitation.

"Read," Harry instructed. Borgin looked puzzled and then began to comply, his eyes zipping across the page.

"Aloud," Harry ordered.

"When one takes into account the colossal power at work, this material would merely crumble to dust. It is not a question of being hard or solid, but being a good conductor of temporal energy. If we take Forendus' second law of magical conductivity to be true, then…"

"Enough," Harry cut him off. If it was cursed, it would have affected him by now. He reached out and plucked the book from Borgin's hand. He slid it into his pocket, his eyes never leaving Borgin. "Any more?"

"Not that I can think of," said Borgin. In that case, there was no reason to stay.

Harry took a step closer. The shopkeeper had outlived his usefulness. It was time to….

The hairs on the back of his neck suddenly pricked up. A feeling seemed to come into his mind. He felt a tingle of magic. He felt…someone was here. A chill ran down his spine.

Harry glanced at the open door that led into the darkness of the shop front and then at Borgin. They were not alone.

"Come here!" he hissed, gesturing for Borgin to approach. The man stepped closer and Harry moved behind Borgin, using him as a human shield. Harry gestured for him to walk out onto the shop floor. Borgin, looking terrified, stepped towards the door, the sound of the floorboards creaking under his steps echoing around the still room. Was it Harry's paranoia, or was there someone else here? He stood behind Borgin with a wand in each hand; one wand was pressed into Borgin's back, the other, the twin of his original, held in his right hand, pointing out into the room. Harry gave the shopkeeper a poke and he moved out into the storefront.

Borgin stopped as he reached the counter; Harry was a pace behind him. He cocked his head to listen, but it was pointless as the sound of his heart, pounding in his chest, was deafening. His eyes swept the room looking for any sign of movement. There was a glimmer of light coming in through the window as the sun set over the rooftops of Knockturn Alley. In the fast-fading light, Harry could see dust on the air. Something had disturbed it more recently than Harry's own scuffle with Borgin. There was definitely someone here. The trouble was that he couldn't see a thing as the light of the back room had ruined his night vision.

He swept his wand over the room as the light faded. The only thing that lit the room was the reflected light from the back, which cast eerie shadows around the room, the reflected light from the glass cabinets shimmering against the walls. There was no sound, no movement, no breathing. The room was perfectly still.

Suddenly there was a thunderous bang and Borgin hurtled to the side, forced away by a surge of magic. Harry stepped back in surprise, his peripheral vision catching a flash of sudden movement. Harry instinctively ducked, turning as he did. The spell sheared past his head, missing by inches as he sank. Harry sprung back up to his feet, both wands aimed towards the intruder.

Two parallel streams of blue light shot out the tips and rocketed towards the shadows from which the spell had come. In the fleeting light of the curses, Harry saw that the shadows were empty – the intruder had relocated. Harry didn't waste time: he jumped up and over the counter and then, bending his knees as he landed, sprang off sideways and rolled into the shadows, rising back up against the wall, deep in the gloom.

His eyes scanned the darkness, searching for a target. He needed a sign; movement, a sound, anything. The room was still and silent again. The sun had set and the light was gone. Suddenly, he had an idea. Aiming both his wands at the floor in the centre of the room and putting the tips together, Harry muttered the spell.

_BOOM!_

It was only a simple bang, but strong enough for the resounding shockwave to shatter every pane of glass in the room. Harry covered his face as thousands of shards of glass were launched into the air. In the blizzards of razors Harry heard a gasp of pain.

_There!_

He ran forwards, wands aimed.

_STUPEFY!_

The figure in black spun away from the first spell, batting the second away with his shield as he crossed its path. As he came back around to face Harry he unleashed a curse of his and then another. Harry jumped the first, ducked the second and rose just in time to find a third coming at him. Harry tried to sidestep it, but slipped on the sea of glass. He clattered to the floor as his feet slid out from under him. By a lucky twist of fate, the curse soared over his head. Harry bit back a gasp of pain as he slid on broken glass, but managed to aim another curse at the intruder.

The man calmly batted it away and flicked his wand. Harry was launched backwards into the air. His experience at this was such that he could control his fall. Open his cloak into a sail, trapping air and allowing him to turn. Harry flipped backwards, and as he hit the far wall feet first, managed to kick off, somersaulting in the air and landing on his feet, a curse having already left his wand. The figure was so surprised that he didn't have time to move before the blue bolt of electricity hurtled into his body. He cried out as blue lightening snaked over his body. Harry ran forwards, thinking of a harder spell for a more deadly opponent.

_For enemies….now he had one!_

"_SECTUMS…"_

The intruder had recovered enough to parry to spell, plucking it from his lips. Harry tried again.

"_SECT…" _again the intruder parried, and was back on his feet now. Harry jumped, aiming to plant both his feet in the intruder's chest, enough to force him back into the remains of the glass case. If magic wasn't working, it was time for something simple.

The intruder sidestepped, battling his legs away. As Harry landed he turned back to face the intruder. As the man jabbed his wand at Harry, the tip glowing red with a curse, Harry grabbed the man's arm with his left hand and swung his right elbow up into the man's jaw. It connected, but not as strongly as Harry would have liked. The man grunted in pain before swinging his other arm at Harry's head. Harry ducked; the fist missing by millimetres, skimming over his head, but exposing the man's ribs. Harry drove his right knee hard into the man's ribcage, knocking the air out of him, hopefully. The man cried out in pain and spun away from Harry in a swirl of his black cloak and a flicker of silver.

Harry hissed in pain. He had felt something slide along his left tricep. He turned back instantly, not letting the hostile out of his sight. The man held a silver dagger in his hand. Harry quickly glanced down at his arm to see a hole in the back fabric and a trickle of red blood. Looking back, he could see a drop of red at the end of the dagger.

_NO!_

_Scourgify! _he thought, casting the silent spell. He couldn't leave any DNA behind!

Harry was relieved to see the red disappear, but his use of that spell left him open for one of the intruder's. The jet of muddy brown light hit him in the chest. Instantly he felt his neck and chest tighten, his throat becoming narrower, and his lungs being crushed. Harry tried to take a breath but found his windpipe blocked. The air was being choked out of him.

Without oxygen, his muscles couldn't operate. Harry dropped his wand and clasped his hands to his throat as his legs gave way beneath him. He couldn't breathe and coloured spots were starting to appear over his vision from the lack of air. He was vaguely aware of the intruder stepping closer.

Harry began to panic. _He's got me. It's over._ The Dark Knight held him firm. _Think. Concentrate, what can you use?_

Suddenly, Harry had an idea. He flicked his wrist and a large piece of glass jumped up and streaked towards the intruder, burying itself in his leg.

"AHH!" The man cried out, and Harry found himself able to breathe again as the man lost concentration. Harry ducked away into the shadows as the man pulled the glass from his leg and dropped it to the floor. Harry moved behind the remains of a cabinet, hiding in the shadows.

This guy was good, whoever he was. Harry had a feeling that he was the same person he had fought in the forest. He may not be a Death Eater, but whoever he was, he was dangerous. He was using Dark magic, visiting Borgin at night and could clearly hold his own in a duel. Harry checked his arm. The blood had clotted. He had managed to clean the dagger, so the intruder had no DNA from which to identify Harry.

Harry peered out from the shadows. Where was he? The man had disappeared again. Harry took a step forwards, but his foot landed on something hard. He looked down.

_Of course!_

He had just trodden on the Hand of Glory. Harry picked it up and lit it with his wand. He then aimed it at the back room. With a swish of his wand, the door slammed shut, blocking off the light from within. The shop was in total darkness, except for Harry whose path was lit by the hand.

However, this did not get him off the hook. The other man could still hear his movement. Harry stepped cautiously out of the shadows, one step at a time, looking around and trying to find the figure.

Harry slowly circled the remains of a cabinet. He passed Borgin's unconscious body, which lay against the wall where the intruder had cast him aside.

Suddenly Harry saw him. There was a flicker of movement as a black cloak billowed across the room, its owner making no sound as he glided across the room. For a second Harry thought he might be a Dementor. Harry moved to intercept him, stepping lightly to his left around some shelves and towards where the figure was heading. On his way, his stooped to pick up a piece of glass, an idea having occurred to him.

Harry stepped around the edge of the bookcase to see the man in black with his back to the shelves. He peered cautiously out, looking for his target. Having found nothing, he turned back into the cover. Whoever he was, he was very cautious, meticulously precise and utterly silent.

Harry didn't like the idea of attacking from behind, but with this guy, he had no choice. Harry flicked the piece of glass with his thumb. It soared across the room, landing with a soft tinkle on the other side of the room. The figure instantly turned to look out again, exposing his back just as Harry raised his wand.

_Stupef…!_

Without warning, the figure spun around and his hand locked around Harry's wrist. He was so surprised that the words escaped him. The spell stopped short of being completed. How the hell had the man known he was here? Had he heard him breathing? Had he sensed it was a distraction?

Harry didn't have time to think. There was a flash of steel and a silver dagger was streaking up towards his face. Harry stepped back, shifting his weight to steady himself. Harry used the metal on the Hand of Glory to parry the dagger, dripping hot wax onto the man's skin in the process, then drawing his arm back, he slammed the heel of his palm into the man's chest, concentrating on a blasting charm at the same time. The man was launched backwards off his feet and into the remains of a glass cabinet. He cried out in pain as he landed - definitely a man.

Harry raised his wand and attempted the full body bind – he wanted to know who this was. The figure swept it aside as he rose back to his feet.

"_Sectumsempra!"_

The curse left Harry's wand before the man was upright. He tried to move but was too slow. The curse struck his shoulder, rolling the torso back and to the side, spraying the pale wall behind him with blood.

"AHH!" the man cried in pain. Harry stepped forward, sensing victory as the man cradled his bleeding arm. Harry flicked his wand and several shards glass flew off the floor and soared towards the intruder. The flurry of razors swept up from the floor like a tornado and swept towards the figure in black, who had swapped his wand to the other arm. As the tornado rampaged towards the figure, a green curse erupted from his wand into the swirls of razors. As the curse struck the spiralling shards of glass, they flew in all directions and the tornado collapsed.

Harry didn't waste time, jabbing his wand towards the floor. A stream of red light hit the floor and skimmed along the floorboards like a snake in the direction of the intruder. As it reached his feet, the floor around him exploded. The figure's feet left the ground under the force; he twisted in mid-air and landed on his back.

He grunted in pain and, still cradling his arm which was still gushing crimson, he swept his wand at Harry and flicked it like a whip. The next thing Harry knew, there was a fiery whip wrapped around his ankle. The magic increased the intruders strength, so when he pulled on the whip, Harry's feet were swept out from under him with the force of a freight train.

Harry landed painfully on his back in a sea of glass. The intruder tugged again and before Harry could move, he was pulled forcefully towards his opponent. Harry slid over the broken glass, his thick cloak offering limited protection from the glass. The intruder was reeling him in like a fish on a hook. He had dropped his wand as he had hit the ground and his other while being choked. Where the hell were they?

As he was dragged along the floor, Harry frantically looked around for his wands. His eyes found one on either side of the room. Harry took a deep breath and concentrated hard.

Suddenly the wands flew off the floor and sailed through the air. Harry caught one in each hand. He instantly aimed them at the whip and pressed the tips together, doubling the power of the spell.

A beam of white light shot out of the wands and shattered the whip with a tremendous bang. Harry and the intruder were both blown backwards by the force of the explosion. The intruder was forced backwards against the wall. He bounced off and landed face first on the floor. Harry was not so lucky. As he shot backwards across the floor he felt a sudden blinding pain in his arm.

His whole body tensed. He felt the blood brain from his face and his body break into a cold sweat. He was lucid enough to recognise shock symptoms when he saw them. Looking down, he saw what had happened. A spike from a tribal warrior's mask had gone straight through his arm. As he had fallen back, he had impaled himself.

His entire body shook in shock as the chemicals in his blood assaulted his capacity for rational thought. He looked down at the mask, his bleeding arm and then over to the intruder on the far side of the room, who was climbing shakily to his feet. The figure has a relatively small gash at the top of his arm. Harry was impaled and couldn't move his arm at all. He also couldn't move the mask, which was attached to the remains of the shelves. He was pinned in place.

_I can't win, _Harry realised. _Not in this state._ He tried to twist his body, to look down at where he had been lying. He aimed his wand at the puddle of his own blood.

_Scourgify!_

He couldn't leave anything that might identify him. He had the book he had come for - he could find out about this stranger any other time. For now, his own survival was a more pressing need. He checked one more time that he had not left any blood.

On the other side of the room, the intruder was back on his feet.

"_CRUCIO!"_

The spell shot out of his wand and soared across the room. It slammed into the wall where a second earlier a boy had disappeared in a ball of flames.

XxXxX

The room came slowly into focus. The first thing that Borgin was aware of was the throbbing pain in his wrist and his head.

"Erg…what?" he managed to stutter.

As his eyes adapted to the dim light, he was suddenly aware that there was a figure in black bending over him. His memory came rushing back.

"Merlin!" he gasped in panic. He was still here! Borgin tried to back away but it was not easy with one hand.

"Peace, Borgin," said the figure softly. That voice! It wasn't the young man who had attacked him earlier. It was an older voice, wiser, colder. He pulled back his sleeve to reveal a mark emblazed on his flesh: a skulls with a snake for a tongue – the Dark Mark. This was someone else. "He's gone."

Borgin stared up at the man. He was taller than the other one, clearly older, and he moved with a different manner. Only the cloaks were similar. Borgin also noticed that the man's left shoulder was bandaged and that crimson blood was starting to seep through.

"Who was he?" asked Borgin sitting up and cradling his broken wrist.

"Let me see it," said the figure, ignoring the question. Borgin held out his wrist. The figure swished his wand and cords shot from the end, binding Borgin's wrist to the splint he held in his other hand. Borgin whimpered in pain as the bone realigned to the splint.

"That will hold it for now. We need to move swiftly. Take this." He offered Borgin a phial of red liquid. Borgin looked suspicious. "It's a painkiller, but it will keep you wide awake. Hurry up, we need to move you!"

"You came to help me?" asked Borgin, confused, as he swallowed the liquid. He felt a cool soothing feeling creep to his arm.

"I came for information," said the figure, his face still hidden. "And I believe our mystery guest had the same idea. That is why we need to move you."

"Who was he?" repeated Borgin.

"I have no idea," replied the intruder, helping Borgin to his feet by his good wrist. "Are you ready to leave?"

"But…"

Suddenly the demeanour of the figure changed. "Borgin," his tone was like ice. "Whoever that was wants you for information you may hold. I do not know what that information might be, but it seems clear to me that he should not have it. That leaves me with two options. I either take you with me, or you never leave this room alive. Make your choice, Borgin."

The shopkeeper gulped. This man was clearly not to be messed with. Few people could really intimidate Borgin, but this was definitely one of them. His eyes never left the figure's wand. Borgin nodded in agreement.

"Good," said the man. "First, let us see if our young friend has left any evidence." As Borgin watched, his guest headed around between the remains of two cabinets. He was bent over and his eyes were scanning the floor.

"What are you looking for?" asked Borgin after a minute. To his horror, the man pulled out a silver dagger.

"Blood," said the man simply. "I cut him, but he made sure to clear it away, even from my knife. Why do you suppose he did that, Borgin? Impress me with your logic."

"He didn't want to leave behind anything that could identify him," said Borgin simply. It wasn't a great stretch.

"Which is precisely why I want to know who he was," said the hooded man.

"How do you know he wasn't just some crazy?" said Borgin, pulling on a coat.

"We've met before," said the figure. "Twice I've fought him and twice he has disappeared in a geyser of flames through an anti-Apparation ward."

"Who is he?"

"What is he would be a better question," said the man. "The very question that led me here tonight, or rather one of the reasons. Is it perhaps too great a coincidence that he too came here? Perhaps he planned to remove you, to remove the one who may know who he is?" The tone was accusing, hostile and cold. His wand was held in his hand, ready to curse Borgin in a second. The shopkeeper gulped.

"He didn't want me," said Borgin. "He wanted a book."

"A book?"

"An old Greek one," said Borgin quickly. "I didn't have it. He wanted something about time and space. I gave him an old diary I got from some old bird."

"Interesting," said the man. "But it does not shed any light on who that was, or how he knew about me at Hogsmeade."

"He must be one of Riddle's men," said Borgin. "Who else would be so cloak and dagger? Why not grab a few of them, kick over a few stones?"

"That, Borgin," scoffed the figure, "is why you were never invited deeper."

"But why…?" began Borgin indignantly.

"Think, moron," hissed the man. "Every body we leave, every theft we make draws the attention of the Aurors. That is why I didn't kill him when I had the chance, and now I am glad I did not - this man fascinates me."

"But we don't need to hide our footprints from the Aurors," said Borgin, trying to sound superior. "The Ministry is ignoring everything."

"The _Minister_ is ignoring everything," said the figure. "It is in an Auror's nature to be suspicious. The more evidence we leave behind, the more they have to go on. The Dark Lord appreciates the need for subtlety. For now, our aim is zero loss of life, zero evidence – not until he has what he seeks. Position the pieces, then move to checkmate. Only a complete idiot shows his hand too early."

"What about this?" asked Borgin, gesturing around at the destruction. "This is evidence."

"The disappearance of a cheating, conniving, deceitful conman will be considered karma," said the man. Borgin felt a rush of anger, but was not stupid enough to anger the man. "The Ministry will conclude that you were robbed or taken by someone you had ripped off, and let us be honest, Borgin, the list of suspects will not be small."

"So what happens now?" asked Borgin.

"You return with me to the manor," said the figure. "There, we shall discuss our new friend."

XxXxX

"ARGH!"

Harry knelt at the shore of the Great Lake. He threw off the cloak as best he could. He was breathing very quickly, and was covered in a cold sweat. His heart was racing, though the beats were shallow. His skin was clammy and he felt sure that if he had a mirror, he would appear pale. Classic shock symptoms. He began to shiver. He had been cut before, often worse than this, but he realised that after having been nearly choked beforehand, his brain was already suffering from lack of oxygen. It was little wonder he was in shock. The trouble was, he wasn't a healer or first-aider.

He reached his right arm across his chest and carefully pulled back the fabric of his jumper. He could see his pale skin through the hole, now caked with blood. Harry gritted his teeth and pulled the fabric, trying to rip it.

"ARGH!"

Pulling it pressed the fabric into the wound and moved the spike that was still imbedded in his arm. Since the mask was stuck to the cabinet in the shop, Harry had severed the spike before he left. Harry released the fabric he was pulling and wiped the involuntary tears from his eyes. He picked up his wand and vanished the fabric around the wound. He then aimed his wand at the spike. He took a deep breath, bracing himself for the pain – this was really going to hurt!

"Win…" he said, but the words failed him. He took a deep breath. _Come on Harry, _he thought, _you have to do this._

"Wingardium Leviosa!"

The spike shot upwards in one quick motion, wrenching itself cleanly from Harry's flesh, unleashing a small spray of blood as it did.

"JESUS!" cried Harry, his voice breaking halfway through the word. He clutched his arm as the mask landed with a clatter. Harry gritted his teeth, willing the pain to go away. He had to move quickly. He was in shock and if he didn't get lots of oxygen and blood back into his system soon, he would pass out and then he really would be in trouble.

He gently pulled his hand away to inspect the wound. It had gone right through. There was a steady trickle of free-flowing blood oozing out of the two holes. Harry used his wand to sever a section of the cloak he had been wearing. Gritting his teeth, he wrapped it around his arm, using his teeth and good arm. From there he pulled it tight, swearing loudly as he did. His arm was in agony and he could hardly move it.

He needed to get something for this. Harry picked up the cloak and covered himself, holding his arm close to protect it. Summoning his strength, he managed another trip by flame up to a classroom near the hospital wing. Groggily, he stepped out of the cupboard. The shock had caused his body to slow down as blood was rerouted to his vital organs. He could feel himself weakening.

Harry stumbled into the hospital wing, trying to keep silent. Luckily he found the whole place silent and deserted. There was no one here yet, which was unsurprising considering it had been less than a week since the beginning of term. Not even Harry had ever been that bad. Harry crossed to the office and peered inside. It was dark and empty. Of course, it was dinner time. Pomfrey would be down having dinner. Harry opened the door. He took one pace and then fell to the floor.

_Argh!_

_His body was weakening. He needed to lie down. No! Come on, get up, Harry!_

Harry crawled to the cabinet. He opened the glass doors and began to scan the phials.

He needed Blood-Replenishing Potion for obvious reasons, Pepper-up Potion to help alleviate the shock and dehydration, and something to clean and close the wounds. Painkillers were also a must.

Cleaning was simple; he found a bottle of the anti-sceptic potion that Pomfrey had used to clean his injuries many times before. He also found a salve that she used on grazed knees. This was a little bit more severe than that, but if it helped the skin grow back over, it would be useful. He judged that since there wasn't that much blood, he hadn't hit a major artery or vein. Tissue damage was mildly worrying. Once he had cleaned and stopped the bleeding, he would have to see if he had any problems moving it.

With the necessary potions in his pockets, Harry grabbed a set of bandages and pads and stuffed them into his pocket, just as his legs buckled again. His head was spinning and he felt really faint. He didn't have the strength for anything else. His legs were numb and he could feel the blackness coming. He grabbed the bottle of potion in his good hand. His vision was blurring and his head becoming faint. Not caring about dosage or Jaredain's bloody principles, Harry took a gulp of potion.

After a second he felt a wave of strength return to him as the potion replenished his arteries with fresh oxygen-rich blood. His head was still spinning, but he had bought himself time. Oxygen has returned to his body. He was still weak and bleeding. There was more work to be done, but not here. Pomfrey wouldn't be gone forever.

Summoning his remaining strength, he flamed back to the side of the lake. It was deserted and so he had room to work. He didn't want to get his bed covered in blood and couldn't think of anywhere else to go that assured him time alone.

He was unable to stand and time was running out – blood alone would not keep him conscious and he was still losing it quickly. He needed to stop the bleeding. It was amazing how instinct was already in place to save him. When any person cuts themselves, their instinctual reaction is to cover it and hold it firmly. Their natural reaction is to apply pressure to slow the bleeding. Harry didn't need to be a medic to do this. _Come on,_ he thought to himself.

He removed the dressing he had made from his cloak and then splashed some of the cleaning fluid all over his arm. He hissed in pain as it bit into him, killing any germs. The liquid was cold and he felt it evaporating, making his arm feel cold. He opened the pot of skin healing salve with his wand and then dipped two cotton-wool pads into a thick viscous slime that looked rather like mucus. Taking a deep breath, he pressed one gently into each side of his arm, using his wand to stick it in place. He then wrapped a bandage around it all to hold it steady and protect it, pulling it tight. He cried out in pain as he pulled it tight, causing the dressing to press into the tender flesh. At least it didn't cut off the blood supply to his arm. He didn't want that amputated. He used his teeth and good hand to tie it off.

That done, he could now focus on the potions. He took another swig of the Blood Replenishing Potion. Hermione's words from the potions lesson came back to him: "too much of a potion, even an antidote, can be dangerous". He didn't care at this precise moment. He didn't have the time or patience to mess around with measuring jugs.

He took a swig of the Pepper-up potion. He felt warmth spread through his body and his strength return. He had stopped shivering and sweating. Lastly he took a swig of painkillers and sighed as icy relief flowed into his burning arm.

Harry waited a few minutes for them to take full effect. The throbbing pain in his arm dimmed and he felt the haziness lift. He was seated on a rock on the shore of the lake, a clear January sky above him. There was a light breeze that caused small waves to wash up on the shore. It was surprisingly relaxing. Harry's heart was still pounding from the experience.

He had come so close to death. Whoever that man was could have killed him, just like he could have in the Forbidden Forest. And then there was the matter of his injury. This would take time to heal. He was in no fit state to fight anything. Also, his injury needed to remain a secret. He couldn't allow anyone to learn of it. He had very nearly passed out in the hospital wing. That would have been a disaster, needing to explain to everyone what he was doing, how he had been injured. He had had a lucky escape tonight, in fact two. He needed to tread more carefully from now on.

He pulled the red diary from his pocket. "You'd better have been worth it," he muttered, before sticking it back in his pocket. He would inspect it later, when he got a chance. For now he needed food. He looked down at his feet around which were the remains of what he had taken from the hospital wing. Some of it was still yet to be used.

Harry put the leftover potions, pads, and bandages into his pockets. He could use those when his bandages needed changing. He then wrapped the used equipment and bloody pads up in his bloodstained cloak. Using his wand, he set the whole wad on fire, destroying the evidence. He watched it burn for a moment, absorbing the heat of the fire. It burned vigorously for a few moments before going out. Harry cast the remains into the water of the lake. That should stop anyone learning what had happened tonight.

He took a deep breath. Holding his arm close to him, Harry turned from the lake. It was time to head back to the castle. He flamed up to the small cloakroom off the entrance hall that had come in so handy during the vampire attack in Rose's world. He was wearing black trousers and a black jumper. Since one sleeve had been mangled, he removed it entirely and then decided to remove the other one to match. However, this exposed the bandages. Harry scanned the racks of cloaks.

Wizards wore cloaks, which was at this moment inconvenient as he needed something that would cover his arm and not open up. Also something that wouldn't be questioned as he wore it indoors. At the end of the line, Harry found what he was looking for: a fleece.

He pulled on the woollen jacket and stepped out of the cloakroom. There were a few people moving through the hall, though no one had noticed him. It was definitely time for dinner. He was hungry and knew that he needed to replenish his strength. Harry walked towards the double doors and fell into line with the others all heading in to dinner.

As it happened, he ended up behind Cho Chang. Oh, how little she interested him these days.

"…to be fair, it is her own fault," said Marietta, who was accompanying her best friend. Harry noticed that the word sneak was not imprinted in spots on her face…yet. Was she still a Judas in this world, he wondered? Either way, it was highly unlikely that Harry would ever consider her, or any other version of Marietta Edgecombe, his friend. Still, it didn't stop him earwigging on their conversation.

"True," said Cho. "I mean, it's good that someone is standing up to Umbridge, but there's brave and then there's stupid and she crossed the line."

"Just because she can teach…"

"Marietta!" hissed Cho.

"I know," said Marietta, scathingly. "But you have to admit that she is really arrogant. Thinking she owns the school."

"I think you are being a little unfair," said Cho.

"Yeah, well," said Marietta. "Just because I go, doesn't mean I have to like her. I reckon she deserved that detention."

Just then they entered the hall and Harry went a different way than the Ravenclaws. It seemed that Marietta was just as bitchy here as ever, and Cho was just as wet. Katie had had a detention as well, apparently. Poor girl. Harry wouldn't wish a Blood Quill on her. However, it was not his affair. He thrust the thought aside and concentrated on a far more pressing issue: dinner.

Ron and Hermione were sitting with Neville at the Gryffindor table. Harry decided to join them. He crossed the hall and sank onto the bench next to Neville.

"Evening," he said. The three of them returned his greeting. Harry had a feeling that whatever they had been talking about had been put on hold as he had arrived. It was a bit of a clique.

"What've you been up to today?" asked Hermione, making conversation.

"Same old," said Harry. He reached across to help himself to some cottage pie. As he did, he noticed in his peripheral vision that Ron looked at Neville and tapped his watch. Harry was clearly an inconvenience to them at this point. Interesting.

Harry took a mouthful of pie. He felt as if he hadn't eaten in years. He felt the strength return to his body, though he still felt ill. In truth, he was looking forward to dessert. A nice big cake that was high in sugar would see him right, probably.

"So where's Katie?" asked Harry.

"Detention with the she-devil," said Neville, before adopting a German accent. "Ze Führer haz decreed zat thinking und freedom ov speech ist nicht güt, und ist punishable by…detention."

"Riiiiight," said Harry, laughing slightly at Neville's impression of the Waffen SS and taking another mouthful.

"Well," said Hermione, rising to leave. "I have an essay to write for Slughorn. I need to head up to the library."

"Really?" said Ron needlessly loudly. "Can I come? I've been struggling with that one." Harry resisted the urge to shake his head at Ron's acting.

"Sure," said Hermione. "Neville?"

"Go on then," said Neville. "I was going to leave it until tomorrow, but if you insist. See you later, Harry." As he turned to leave, he reached out and gave Harry a friendly slap on the arm, right where the spike had penetrated.

Harry hissed in agony as pain surged through his arm; his eyes bulged as he managed to stifle a cry. Instantly Neville, Ron, and Hermione turned back to face him, surprise and confusion on their faces, which slowly turned to suspicion. They probably thought he had the Dark Mark.

"It's nothing," said Harry. "I was doing catch-up potions with Slughorn and burned my arm. I was an idiot and reached across the flames."

"Has Madam Pomfrey seen it?" asked Hermione, looking concerned.

"No," said Harry. "There's no need. Slughorn game me some salve to put on when I go to bed. I'll be alright. Go and do your essays."

"Sure you're okay, mate?" asked Neville.

"Happy as Larry," said Harry, looking him in the eye.

"Happy as Harry," corrected Neville with a grin. "Okay, see you later."

The three of them turned to leave. Harry watched them go, cradling his arm close to him. Wherever they were going, it was not the library. Harry spooned some shepherd's pie into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

_So the three stooges have disappeared, but not to the library,_ Harry thought. He had a fairly good idea where they were going and what they were doing. On reflection, it had never been his idea, so there was no reason that it could not happen without him. He had to admit he was curious to see how it was going, if they were as good as his crew had been.

Still, not a lot would be happening tonight. Katie was in a detention with Umbridge, according to Neville. Harry shivered, the back of his hand beginning to itch at the memory. Umbridge was a vicious and spiteful cow. Harry had done many things he wasn't proud of, but he hadn't ever enjoyed causing pain like she had. Harry was a killer, but he considered himself less of a monster than her. He certainly didn't take his insecurities out on children.

He shook his head. Poor Katie. He would have to drop a hint about the solution that Hermione had had him soak his hand in. Making it himself would draw attention, but dropping a hint, 'maybe Hermione can make you something to ease the pain.' would be fine as it didn't directly involve him. He supposed that easing the pain was the least he could do, as long as it didn't compromise his primary objective.

Getting home was his first priority. He would have a look at the book tomorrow evening if he could get some time to himself and see where that led.

Still in the meantime, he could help out Katie from behind the scenes. Easing the pain in her hand would be enough. Much more and he would become involved, and that was dangerous. He had felt this way before, in the Unholy Land, and he had been sucked into the war there. But he could argue that Harry Potter had been involved in that war to begin with, and the war had sought him out, not the other way around. Here, it was nothing to do with him. It wasn't his world, it wasn't his fight. Here he had a choice and he had chosen. He would not get involved. He liked Katie, sure - well, his Katie, that is – and if he could within reason, he would spare her the pain of these detentions, but it was not in his power. He couldn't exactly march in there and hex Umbridge, however tempting it may be. He'd end up in a right flap.

Then again…

Harry rested his head on hands. He had a way of watching her without her knowing, so he could in theory help her without her knowing. So far, she hadn't seemed to be too suspicious of her new friend; in fact she seemed quite grateful. Harry realised that flying into a girl's room at night and watching her sleep was in fact a rather pervy thing to do, and made him sound like either a vampire or a peeping-tom. Harry cast the thought aside. He was there on a purely professional matter. He had not spent the night staring at her bum or anything like that – he was not there for that. She wasn't even of his world.

In fact, by definition, she was an alien. Not a little green man, but she was not from his Earth. Flamel said that from the Magical Signature, he could tell which world Harry was from – okay, so he had been wrong but if the principle was right, then the same person from two different worlds would have an ever so slightly different signature. Was Riddle here skilled enough to find the difference, he wondered? Another, albeit a rather odd, question popped into his mind. Would the fact that she was from a different world, i.e. and alien, make it bestiality? Harry thrust the thought aside. It was a moot point – he wasn't looking for a girlfriend and he certainly wasn't stupid enough to start now. Acquiring a lady-friend didn't even feature on his list of priorities at this time.

He realised that he had digressed and shook his head. The point was that he had a way to enter without people knowing who he was. He did in fact have the power to intervene and save Katie at least some of the pain. Did that give him the right to? Should he interfere in what was nothing to do with him? He hadn't travelled in time, so it wasn't as if he might affect the future and re-write history. In the end it came down to a simple choice. Did he want to?

He made his choice.

XxXxX

_I will not tell lies_

The streaks of blood glistened as they formed the loopy writing. Katie clenched her jaw, determined not to give Umbridge the satisfaction of hearing her complain. The pain faded as the incisions healed, leaving nothing but a pale line. Glaring at her hand and then her captor for the umpteenth time, she took a deep breath and wrote the line again.

_SMASH!_

All of a sudden the window to her left flew open with such force that it hit the wall and two panes shattered, raining jagged glass down to the floor. Katie's head snapped up to look, and her hand moved instantly to her wand. Umbridge was on her feet and moving towards the window, cursing under her breath.

She grasped the iron handle of the window, and muttering to herself raised her wand to the shattered panes, trying to fix the glass that now littered the floor. Katie took the opportunity to use her wand to duplicate her lines, giving her another page of work. The sheet would be burned in front of her long before the spell wore off. Umbridge did that at the end of every detention to remind her that all her pain was for nothing – a reoccurring theme amongst their interactions. At least she didn't know about the RA.

"_ARGH!"_

Katie looked up at the sound of the scream, just in time to see a ball of flame erupt in front of Umbridge. As she staggered back, slipping on the broken glass, the phoenix soared in through the window, its claws narrowly missing Umbridge as she fell. Katie felt her insides leap as the bird swooped around her and then came in to land on the end of her table. Umbridge had landed amidst the glass and was tending to her bleeding fingers from where she had broken her fall. Katie looked down at the phoenix, which seemed to be inspecting her hand. The bird looked from her hand to Umbridge and then up to Katie. She was sure that it understood what was going on, with almost human-like intellect. The bird cawed softly, before cocking its head. A single glistening tear escaped its eye, falling down its beak and on to her hand. She felt a cool soothing sensation as it landed. As another followed, Katie felt he hand begin to tingle as the wound closed itself. The cool tears cast a feeling of freshness though her, like a cool wind after a stuffy room. She felt energy return to her arm.

_WHACK!_

A metre-long ruler used during lessons came crashing down on the desk, narrowly missing the bird, which squawked indignantly. With a flutter, it spread its mighty wings and launched itself into the air, rising near vertically towards the rafters.

"Get away!" snapped Umbridge, raising her wand and attempting to Stun the phoenix, which twisted out of the way and came to perch on the rafters.

"You can't do that!" said Katie hotly, glaring at the teacher.

"I am High Inquisitor!" said Umbridge icily. "I can do what I like!"

"But it's a phoenix!" said Katie. "You can't hit a phoenix any more than a unicorn. They're peaceful, higher beings!"

"Which the Ministry classes as dangerous," snapped Umbridge, firing another hex up into the rafters. "I am not having animals running free over my school. It's not a zoo."

"It's not your school," snapped Katie.

The Phoenix cawed loudly from the rafters. As Umbridge looked up, the creature dived for her, its claws missing her ludicrous perm by inches as she ducked. It turned upwards, flying back up and circling just beneath the ceiling, cawing loudly.

"This is pointless," said Umbridge in despair as her fifth Stunner sailed wide of the circling bird.

"We will continue your detentions tomorrow," she said. "And for your cheek, it will be three hours, not two. Be here at six."

Katie didn't say anything else, but darted out of the room. She heard another shout of 'Stupefy' before the phoenix fluttered out of the room and sailed down to land on her shoulder as she headed back towards the seventh floor – she was very late. She hissed slightly as its claws sank into her robes. She knew it hadn't meant to hurt her, but was just trying to get a grip.

Somehow, its weight was comforting as she walked. She could feel its soft warm feathers against her ear as she walked. It was nice not to be alone. She was glad Hermione had been right, and that it had returned. She didn't in all honesty know where she stood with the phoenix. She knew it wasn't a pet and would be insulted if she asked it to carry a package. She also knew now that Umbridge despised them, and she was fairly sure that they would be banned by another Educational Decree tomorrow morning. Still, the phoenix had shown up two days in a row – this was an encouraging thought. It seemed to come and go when it pleased, or rather when it was needed. She smiled; the thought was comforting. Her white knight, albeit a feathery one, was here.

She looked down at her hand. She had rubbed the tears in, and now the skin was perfectly healed. The scar was barely visible and her hand felt as fresh as ever.

"Thank you," she whispered.

The phoenix gently pressed its head against the side of hers, in what she assumed was a sign of affection. Suddenly with a loud caw right in her ear, she felt a rush of wind as the bird jumped into the air. She staggered back a pace under the force as it lifted from her shoulder. She stood frozen to the spot as the bird soared forward at incredible speed, turned right and flew around the corner.

Suddenly there was a thud that sounded suspiciously like someone falling over.

"Jesus!" muttered a voice.

Wand drawn, Katie stepped around the corner to find Harry Potter in a heap on the floor.

"What are you doing here?" asked Katie, letting her wand arm fall to her side.

"Do you mean here as in a heap on the floor, or here as in the east wing?" he said indignantly, climbing to his feet. He brushed himself off, looking rather put out. "For your information," he continued, "I am heading back to the Tower, or rather I was before this bloody great big bird flew out of nowhere and damn near flew into me. Where'd it go anyway?" He looked around, trying to find the phoenix, which thankfully had pulled another disappearing act.

"What bird?" asked Katie, playing dumb. She didn't want news to spread that she had a phoenix. It was best she keep this knowledge to herself. Tomorrow Umbridge would outlaw unusual pets, and she didn't need any more attention than she would get. In some ways it was fortunate that it came and went when needed.

"A big orange...thing," said Harry, flapping his arms to imitate a bird. Katie rolled her eyes, and turned on her heel. She was late for the meeting, and trading sarcasm with Harry Potter was the last thing she needed. To her great annoyance, the boy fell into step beside her.

"Yes?" asked Katie as they walked.

"Well, we are both going back to the Tower, aren't we?" said Harry. "This is the best way?" It was odd, noted Katie, that he used rhetoric like a teacher. He almost sounded as if he was talking down to her, something she would never have expected from him. She pushed the thought aside, as Harry's use of English was not her main priority. She needed to get rid of him and pronto. They were fast approaching the junction where she needed to turn right to head up to the Room of Requirement and her meeting, and Harry would have to go straight on to the Tower.

She was already suspicious of the boy. Hermione had said earlier that he had quizzed her about Arithmancy of all things, and how she was doing in her lessons, as if he didn't know she was a straight-O student. There was something wrong with Harry, something she couldn't put her finger on, but something that made it clear he could not be trusted.

"Can I ask you a personal question?" asked Harry, after a few moments of silence. The question pulled Katie from her thoughts about the very person who was speaking.

"Depends how personal," said Katie, her mind thinking of a way to get rid of him, rather than listening.

"How do you cope with all the…rumours?"

"What do you mean?" said Katie, her mind coming back down to Earth as his words pierced her mind. Was he just after some gossip? Her jaw clenched in frustration, but then a terrifying thought occurred to her. Was he a spy? Was that why he was quizzing Hermione earlier? Was he Umbridge's stooge? Did the old bag have a spy in the Gryffindor common room? Was nowhere safe?

Katie gritted her teeth, but managed to hide her anger at the thought. Her face remained neutral.

"Well," said Harry, his tone emotionless but gentle. "I had a friend who was kind of in a similar position to you. I mean not exactly, because you are unique, but he was famous for what his mother did, or more specifically died doing. Everywhere he went he used to get things, have people shake his hand, and then one day for no particular reason, the media turned on him. Overnight he went from being loved to being a laughingstock for no reason other than some madman in a suit behind a desk decided he didn't like him and wanted to break him."

Katie stopped walking and turned to face him. It was a more insightful question than she had heard all term.

"What happened to him?" she asked.

"Well," said Harry, staring ahead into space. "He was fine as long as he had a few good friends, but one day he lost them. He was alone in a world that hated him. He carried on the good fight as best he could…but…eventually..."

"He's dead?"

"Close," said Harry. "Might as well be. Total mental breakdown: locked up in his own mad little world, unable to escape - a prison for his mind."

Katie stared into those unblinking green eyes. There was a sadness there she had not seen before. He had appeared so calm since he had been back, almost chillingly so, but now there was a deep sadness. Whoever this friend was, it had been someone very dear to him. It also echoed part of her own life. She too had been made a laughingstock for no better reason than Fudge had got it into his head that she was a threat.

"I'm sorry," said Katie. She raised a hand and rested it lightly on his shoulder. She felt him tense as she touched him, recoiling a fraction of an inch, but then relaxing. God, he was so tense. What was worrying him?

"It's okay," said Harry. "Feels like ancient history now. So what about you?" His icy cold mask was back in place.

"Much the same way," said Katie. "There are those who believe me, and those who don't. I refuse to waste time making people believe me. I just want to…" she paused.

"Live your life?" suggested Harry. Strange, they were just the words she had been looking for.

She nodded. "I didn't want any of this. And people think I like this attention, this constant ridicule. Don't they see that I hate it, and I would give it all up for a chance to live with my parents? But it's in the past and I can't change it – I just have to make do. I know I am right, I have friends who will stand by me, and everyone else can bugger off. I don't care about their opinions, they don't matter to me."

Her voice was becoming more shaky, more erratic, so she stopped before she either said something she'd regret or burst into tears.

"You haven't asked me," said Harry. "You haven't asked what I believe."

"I've given up trying to convince people," said Katie.

"And so you should," said Harry. "My opinion, Malfoy's, Betty Jones' from Milton Keynes, and everyone else' shouldn't matter. We cannot understand what it is like to be you, and none of us have the courage to stand up and fight. What right do we have to judge you? None. You have your friends with you – value them, Katie, don't let them go. As long as they are with you, you have all you need."

Katie stared at the boy. The sadness was gone and his eyes were expressionless, staring unblinkingly into hers.

"Strong as you are, you cannot do this alone," said Harry. "They can help you. As with my friend, if you lose those you hold dear, you have nothing left to keep you straight and sane."

Katie stood motionless, unable to speak. Harry paused for a second before he relaxed. His face and eyes softened and looked away. "I just thought I should mention it – you seem a bit down."

"I…" Katie stammered, caught a little off-guard. In all her years, this boy was the closest anyone had come to understanding her. It was something of a shock, as well as a stark warning. He was cleverer than he appeared.

Harry took a step along the passage before turning back to her, "Coming back to the tower?"

"Yes," said Katie absently, thinking about what he had said. "No!" she said, suddenly remembering the situation. "I have to…I forgot my bag. I just need to fetch it from the library. I'll see you up there."

"You want me to come with you?" he offered.

"Thanks, but I can manage," said Katie, struggling to keep the false smile on her face. Harry regarded her for a second, and she was glad he couldn't do Legilimency.

"Okay," said Harry. "See you later."

Katie nodded and then turned on her heel, not noticing the boy behind her. He too turned to leave, but paused a second later, staring back at her with a curious stare. As she rounded the corner, the boy crouched down, and then rose in a flutter of fiery feathers up towards the rafters.

XxXxX

Harry took off and flapped his way up to the rafters. For some reason his injured arm didn't translate to an injured wing. His flight was not impeded in the slightest. He flew swiftly upward, but he did not land on the rafters, but continued to glide as slowly as possible after Katie, walking beneath him. At this slow speed he had little manoeuvrability unless he flapped, which was noisy. He was lucky she hadn't heard him take off. He had nearly hit a rafter twice, but he managed to keep going, keeping an eye on the girl below.

She was oblivious to her pursuer and walked swiftly on. After a few metres, she checked her watch. He heard her curse aloud and then break into a run. She was not heading towards the library, nor was she heading towards the Tower. Where on Earth was she going? Harry accelerated after her, keeping close to the ceiling, hidden by the shadows despite his bright plumage.

_Why wasn't I a blackbird? _ he thought to himself.

With the added speed he could soar between rafters effortlessly in perfect silence, undetectable, unless he crashed or she looked up. Katie came to the south-side staircase and began to climb.

Harry cursed to himself. The staircase was brightly lit and the ceiling was a good hundred feet above them. If there were others near the top, he would be seen. Harry wished he had his cloak with him. He swooped down and turned back into his human form. From there he peered out into the bright staircase. Katie was two floors up and still climbing. Harry watched her climb another, up to the seventh floor.

Thinking quickly, Harry decided on a course of action. Concentrating hard, he disappeared in a ball of flame, reappearing at the same time up near the ceiling. As he began to fall, his arms shortened and the feathers reappeared. In phoenix form, he pulled out of the dive, soaring into the darkness of the seventh floor passage.

He rose up towards the ceiling, having reacquired his prey. Soaring along in silence, he saw Katie stop. She stepped sideways into the shadows against the wall. Harry could still make her out. He dared not land, for she would hear the thud, and he couldn't disappear for the same reason. Had she heard him? She was looking back towards the stairwell. She knew someone was following her.

Harry soared past her and continued for another twenty metres before turning and coming back around. Katie still hadn't moved. She stood in the shadows, eyes fixed on the end of the passage where it joined the stairs. Harry glided silently by far above her and once again came about to fly back. As he passed her she stepped out of the shadows. She stood in the middle of the passage and then continued along the passage for three paces before turning. Had she changed her mind? Suddenly she turned again, pacing back and forth.

Suddenly, Harry realised where they were, and what she was doing. The Room of Requirement. His suspicions had been right: the DA was still running! She was going to give her lesson, albeit a bit late. Sure enough, the door had appeared and opened. He just had time to hear Katie say "Sorry I'm so late, guys," before the door shut and faded into nothingness.

Harry flew down and dropped to the floor, landing on his human feet. Standing up, he walked to the point where the door would appear. He could visualise the room as it had been when they had practiced when he had been in charge. He took one step forward, then froze.

I haven't been invited, he realised. They would want to know how he knew, whom he had told. They would think he was an Umbridge spy. They might even work out that he was not the Harry they used to know. Harry stepped away from the wall. No, he could not enter tonight. He wanted to see the DA, see how it was going, see if they were as good as his crew had been. Smiling to himself at the memory, Harry turned to leave.

_I could get in,_ he thought to himself. _But it's best to be invited._

He reached the stairs and began to descend, aiming for a passage that would lead him to the Tower.

_So how do I get invited?_ he wondered. He was so deep in thought that he nearly walked into a suit of armour. He had plenty of time before curfew, but didn't want the attention.

"So how do I get an invite?" he muttered to himself. "They have to want me in there." Maybe he should show off – show what he could do. They would surely want to learn from that. Yes, but that would draw attention from Umbridge, Riddle, the Ministry, Grindelwald (whatever he was like) and who knew what else. No, that was not the way to go about it. He could hold back, just use simple spells – that way it would only seem like he was as good as the rest. But then again, that would show that he could take care of himself and not need any training. Hang on, that's it – he had to appear in need of training. He had to appear as if he could not handle himself. He needed to lose a fight!

"Right," he said to himself. "Where's Malfoy got to?"

* * *

_ Auror's Notes:  
_

_I hope you'll all join me in saying thank you to Kaitlyn who has been Betaing the chapters since….about SIAUL05 I think. Without all her hard work, this story could never have come this far. She is off to Uni this autumn, so on behalf of everyone in the group: thanks, and good luck. As of the next chapter, Kathy (KEDme) will be taking over. Speaking of the next chapter, 4 and 5 are already available to read on my Yahoo!Group. won't allow me to give you the URL link, so just Yahoo! or Google Search for 'Stranger Trilogy' or 'A Stranger in an Unholy Land' and you will find it. _

_If you are wondering why McLaggen was killed instead of Cedric, simply because he was too old at the time of the Tournament. He would have left Hogwarts by then. McClaggen is a seventh year and I won't lose any sleep over having him killed._

_See you soon..._

_  
Jono  
_

* * *

_Next time:  
_

_**A Stranger in the Promised Land**_

** Chapter IV  
Enigma  
**

Harry's attempts to infiltrate the new DA continue as Umbridge tightens her grip. However, the price of his admission seems to have had a lasting effect and renders Harry helpless. His attempts to return home lead him to a surprising reunion, and Harry gets to see first hand what happened to Lily and James Potter. However, he must tread carefully for Riddle and Katie are still trying to piece together the enigma that is Harry Potter.


	4. Enigma

Harry's attempts to infiltrate the new DA continue as Umbridge tightens her grip. However, the price of his admission seems to have had a lasting effect and renders Harry helpless. His attempts to return home lead him to a surprising reunion, and Harry gets to see first hand what happened to Lily and James Potter. However, he must tread carefully for Riddle and Katie are still trying to piece together the enigma that is Harry Potter.

_**A Stranger  
in the  
Promised Land**_

** Chapter IV  
Enigma**

_"You're here because you know something.  
What you know you can't explain, but you feel it.  
You've felt it your entire life, that there's something wrong.  
You don't know what it is, but it's there,  
Like a splinter in your mind, driving you mad."_

_ Morpheus (Laurence Fishbourne) – The Matrix_

_BLACK MARKETEER DISAPPEARS DURING RANSACKING_

_Borgin and Burkes of Knockturn Alley was ransacked last night, in an apparent revenge-motivated attack. The shop owner, Mr. Borgin, whose whereabouts are unknown at this time, is believed to have been abducted during the incident, which took place at around 5pm yesterday. Neighbours and passers-by report hearing bangs and curses shortly after the shop closed for business. When Aurors arrived, the shop had been ransacked and there was no sign of its owner. _

"_We are treating this as suspicious," said a Ministry spokesperson. "Since nothing appears to have been taken from the shop, we have ruled out robbery as a motive. This seems to have been a personal vendetta against Mr. Borgin."_

_Mr. Borgin's alleged dealings are rumoured to be in the Dark Arts, and his ruthlessness as a businessman have gained him a long list of enemies. The Aurors are not short on suspects. Several cases have been brought against Mr. Borgin over the years, but witnesses more often than not mysteriously tend to withdraw their statements, or worse, meaning that he has never been prosecuted. It is, perhaps, ironic that a man rumoured to be behind several disappearances should now have disappeared himself. _

Harry stopped reading and put the _Prophet_ down. Using his good arm, he poured himself some orange juice and raised the glass to his lips. As he drank, he was aware of several eyes watching him intently. Further down the table Katie, Neville, Ron, Hermione and Ginny were all deep in conversation. He had a feeling it was about him.

Across the room, Draco Malfoy was shooting daggers at him.

_Perfect,_ thought Harry as he glanced at Malfoy._ That should make my job easier._ He hadn't given up on his plan to pick a fight with the Slytherin, hopefully prompting Katie and her group to invite him into the DA.

He buttered a bagel with his good hand, holding it still with his injured left. The salve he had borrowed had replaced the skin over the wound and helped to heal the muscles and tendons below, but it still hurt like hell when he stretched and tensed it too much so he held it close to his body and tried to keep it immobile. Lifting anything more than a bagel was impossible. He supposed he could use a sling, but that would just draw attention. Instead, he just kept the arm bandaged, more to protect it than anything else until the skin had healed over. All in all, he judged the mission to be a success; after all, he had gotten what he went there for in the first place, and he had managed to get away from the man in black, a highly skilled opponent, without needing to consult professional help. That thought brought a small smile to his face.

"Your attention please!" called a magically magnified voice above the chatter. Harry, along with the rest of the hall, turned to look at the speaker, though he already knew who it was and roughly what this was about. Umbridge was walking down the central aisle towards the staff table, dressed from head to toe in pink and wrapped in a fuchsia woollen shawl. The chatter died down in an instant as she spoke, but a groan started to circulate as people noticed what she was holding; a rolled up parchment.

"I have in my hand," she announced, unravelling the parchment with a pompous snap. "Educational Decree Number Twenty-Seven."

The groan swept through the room twice as loud as before, though Umbridge seemed unfazed. Harry noticed a grimace on McGonagall's face as she exchanged a weathered glance with Riddle, whose face was passive. When quiet had returned, Umbridge began to read from the parchment, though Harry had a fairly good idea what it was about before she opened her mouth.

"_By order of the High Inquisitor,"_ she began in that familiar sickly sweet voice that made Harry want to pull her toenails out one by one. _"All non-sanctioned pets and animals are banned from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Anyone owning a pet not listed on the school's approved animal list, (see School Regulation 367, paragraph C) should be handed to professor Grubbly-Plank for disposal."_ Umbridge stopped reading and looked around, wearing an inappropriate smile, as though she had just given them a treat.

There was a pause as the words set in. Harry noticed Julia Giles, a young second year who had a rabbit called Fidget, looking extremely pale. Harry's thoughts on the other hand, went far beyond a single furball. This was another example of Umbridge stamping down on the students. Like Dumbledore in Harry's world, apparently not even Riddle could stop her.

What concerned Harry the most was that she was going further than she had in his world and it was in response to the phoenix – to Harry's intervention. He was already affecting this world, already making it harder for Katie. Riddle was expending valuable energy and resources that should rightly be spent looking for Grindelwald following Harry around – an utter waste of time. In addition, Umbridge was now trying to find out about the 'mysterious phoenix', in addition to Katie's DA. Just by being here Harry was changing history, although granted it wasn't history yet, exactly. Technically this wasn't the past, this was the present...just an alternate present. He tried to reassure himself that intervening didn't matter. After all, he couldn't very well delete himself from history, could he? All he was accomplishing was making it harder for Katie. Of greater concern was that if he pushed Umbridge enough, she could deviate from what she had done in his world and Harry would no longer be able to predict what was to come. And when it came to that woman, he did not like surprises.

"Excuse me, Professor, but what do you mean by '_disposal'_?" asked a small, terrified voice. Umbridge had been heading up towards the head table when Julia Giles had spoken. "You don't mean to… kill them, do you?"

Umbridge paused and turned back to the students with an icy smile.

"The sanctioned animals list was designed to be an inventory of safe and useful pets," she replied with false kindness. "If they are not on that list, my dear, then they are classed as dangerous or inappropriate. In that case, the Ministry shall proceed accordingly and have them destroyed."

"You mean murdered!" said an angry voice from the Hufflepuff table, but Umbridge ignored it.

"That is all. Enjoy your breakfast."

The argument was at an end and the High Inquisitor's word was final. She headed towards the front of the room and took her place at the head table, completely oblivious to the tears of young Julia and the many other horrified and hostile faces around the room. Even Professor McGonagall was shooting daggers at her, Harry noticed. Unconcernedly, Umbridge calmly helped herself to a pastry, perfectly at ease.

If only he could be there to see her chased away by a herd of centaurs for a second time... However, he planned to be gone long before that happened. Despite the fact that Umbridge was stamping down, there was nothing he could or should do to stop it. He didn't dare visit Katie as the phoenix again – or at least, not where he could be seen. He really needed to keep a low profile.

Fighting his natural instinct, he rose to his feet, holding a bagel in his mouth and turned to leave, his injured arm tucked close to his body as he walked back up to the tower to get his stuff. He had a full day of lessons today and was too exhausted and in too much pain to do anything but comply with the status quo. He wanted to get into the DA sooner rather than later, but he was not an idiot; he knew that it was fool-hardy to go looking for a fight with Malfoy in this state. He would have to wait. He needed to wait. If he managed to find time, he might have a look at the journal later. For now though, it was time for Herbology.

XXXXXX

"That didn't take long," muttered Katie bitterly, as Umbridge finished her announcement. She had known that Umbridge would attempt something of the sort, but it didn't stop her feeling angry at the old bint. She would slaughter all those animals just to drive Katie lower. That was pathetic, but that was Umbridge. Looking around, Katie could see that she wasn't the only one who looked angry. Professor McGonagall also didn't look best pleased. Katie looked over at the Headmaster, but as usual, he was looking elsewhere. Another glimmer of anger pulsed through her. Determinedly, Katie shook the thought aside, not allowing herself the luxury of wallowing in self-pity.

As she scoured the faces in the Great Hall, many seemed to be either livid or upset at Umbridge's latest proclamation. Several people seemed to be in tears while friends tried to comfort them. Although most people did stick to toads, cats and owls, there were a few exceptions – one of which was Hermione. Crookshanks was half cat, half Kneazle. Katie hoped that Umbridge wasn't smart enough to realise this or Crookshanks could very well end up heading for the axe.

Another face Katie had picked out of the crowd was Harry Potter. His neutral expression stood out among the students as he arose at the back at the Great Hall and stood to leave. Curiously, he seemed to be holding his arm close to his body, protecting it. Had he hurt himself? Had someone hurt him? As Katie watched, she recalled their conversation the night before as she had headed up to the Room of Requirement.

_We cannot understand what it is like to be you, and none of us have the courage to stand up and fight. _

_What right do we have to judge you? None._

How could someone so distant be so understanding? His question had cut her right to the soul. Even Ron, Neville, Hermione and Ginny had no clue was it was like to be her. None of them understood how much she hated this fame. Then, out of the blue, someone who she never really took notice of before seemed to get it. Someone who she didn't trust, didn't even like in his current state of mind, could somehow cut to the core of her. For a second, in those emerald eyes she thought that she had seen… understanding.

No…she must have been imagining it.

It was ridiculous. She knew perfectly well that her bumbling friend had never been through anything remotely related to what she had lived – no one had. Yet, she knew what she had seen... Katie sighed. It was just another chapter of the enigma that was Harry Potter.

What was going on with him? His questioning of both her and Hermione was certainly suspicious. She couldn't fight the idea that he was Umbridge's spy. It all fitted –so far he hadn't been in trouble with the toad and he had taken unusual interest in what Katie and her friends had been up to. She couldn't shake the feeling that he had an ulterior motive. Clearly the boy was hiding something.

Then again, it was Harry... only Harry. He didn't have it in him to be a traitor, did he? A few weeks ago, she would instantly have said no, but these days she wasn't so sure.

Still, tonight she had another detention and this one was to be longer that the last. There was no chance of being saved by a phoenix this time. She glowered at the figure in pink sitting at the front table and felt a sudden desire to see her struck by lightening.

_I'm going to be there, _she thought bitterly. _When you and your stupid Minister are proven wrong and hung out to dry in front of the entire country, I'm going to be there and I'll be laughing. _

Suddenly, Katie's blood was boiling and all her frustration was directed squarely at Umbridge.

_Take a breath Kathryn, calm yourself,_ she chastised herself. _This is just from lack of sleep._ The nightmares had returned since the phoenix had not been there last night.

_Come back to me,_ she pleaded.

The dreams were getting more vivid and the classes during the day more brutal. She held on to one thing now, and one thing only. She spent most of her time in daydreams, planning upcoming RA lessons. It was a glimmer of hope, and it was all she had to look forward to.

XXXXXX

Harry's cunning plan did not succeed for some time. It was ironic, he noted, that he found it so hard to get into a fight. Trouble had always managed to find him before, and Malfoy had given Harry so many opportunities over the years to lamp him one that Harry had given up counting. Ironically, now that he actually wanted to get into a scrap he was finding it really hard going.

Due to Umbridge's latest decree banning all non-sanctioned animals, Harry had not been back to visit Katie in phoenix form since rescuing her from the old bint." He watched her from a distance over the next three days and as far as he could tell, there didn't seem to be anything wrong with her. He would check in soon in phoenix form, as a week's absence would make her suspicious. Nothing much, just a quick flap around the room. He made a mental note to do that after classes, but right now he was concentrating on something else: Malfoy.

Although anxious for a fight, Harry forced himself to not make a single attempt over the next few days in order to give his arm time to heal. In the interests of protecting said limb, Harry would rather this upcoming scrap be magical and not physical. He needed to be up to his full strength as soon as possible and taking a pounding on his already injured arm from any of the Slytherins would set him back days. By the end of Wednesday, his arm, largely thanks to the liberal doses of the lotions and potions he had taken from Pomfrey, was a bit better. Although he could not support much weight on that arm and movement was still a bit painful, the skin had completely healed over. It was now a matter of giving the muscle beneath time to heal. Not being a Healer, Harry thought this was good progress and so made his first attempt the following morning.

His first effort had simply been to track the three of them and then walk past them alone in a deserted corridor while wearing Gryffindor colours, and so giving them every opportunity to have a go. However, the trio of Slytherins walked right past, noses in the air, Crabbe and Goyle's arms swinging like pendulums but fists not clenched. They didn't seem to care. Harry felt strangely annoyed that he wasn't even worth their time. He also felt something was amiss if Draco "Shooting-daggers-at-me-for-the-past-few-weeks" Malfoy was ignoring him.

It was not, Harry soon discovered, as easy as one might imagine, especially as it harmed the desired image of helpless and defenceless if he went in fists and wands blazing. He needed to get Malfoy to make the first move. Getting a bully to make the first move sounded simple, but it just didn't seem to be working. Did Umbridge have her pet on his best behaviour? Harry wasn't sure, but what he did know was that this wasn't going to happen nicely.

That afternoon, attempt number two had taken the form of walking into Goyle as if he had not seen him. He had been aiming for Malfoy, but Goyle had stepped across his path just before impact. Harry had stammered an apology, hoping to be hit, but before Goyle could raise a fist, Malfoy had grabbed his arm and pointed. Professor Slughorn had been waddling towards him.

Goyle had cursed aloud exactly the phrase Harry was thinking in his head.

"Watch where you're going," Goyle grunted rudely, and the Slytherins retreated into the Potions room.

"Careful, mate," Neville, who had been standing nearby with Ron, warned. "I don't reckon he's forgiven you yet."

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but quickly shut it again. He didn't want to seem to be looking for trouble – he needed sympathy. Cursing inwardly, he followed Neville and Ron into the classroom.

Before Potions on Thursday afternoons, he decided, was his best opportunity for another go, as Katie and the finalists had their lessons in a room no more than thirty metres from the one Harry and the sixth years were using. This would give the DA head coach a front row seat. However, it also meant he needed to wait another week.

In the last few days since he had discovered the DA's existence, Harry had been busy. The professors had started sending him notes to attend extra catch-ups lessons, which had taken a majority of his spare time. He had appeared to Katie as a phoenix twice since Umbridge had banned unusual pets, but never stayed long. He just flapped around, let her pet him for a few minutes and then left. In truth it was quite pleasant when her finger gently stroked his golden plumage and he had had to force himself to leave the second time. These visits, and the additional homework he now found himself faced with meant that he had had very little time to explore the diary. He had skimmed through parts of it each night before bed but had only managed a few pages per night, and it was a long book. The author's tiny writing didn't help, nor the constant use of technical jargon. From the parts Harry understood he seemed to be on the right track, and Harry was optimistic that further down the line he may well encounter some useful information.

As it turned out, it was another week before anything happened, either with Malfoy or the diary. At one-thirty on the following Thursday they were all waiting outside their Potions lesson with the seventh years just around the corner including, Harry noted, the Girl Who Lived. He suppressed a smirk at the title and turned his attention back to his own class. Malfoy was leaning lazily against the wall, apparently lost in thought. Truth he told, Harry was not actually concentrating on Malfoy at the time. Like all great plans, this one came into being almost by accident. Harry had been working out how he could plausibly get close enough to spill the blackcurrant drink he was holding, (guaranteed to stain clothing) all down Malfoy's new robes, when a dreamy voice sounded in the passage.

Harry didn't actually hear what Luna said and had no idea why she would even be here with the sixth years, but the Slytherins promptly burst out laughing. Harry noticed that there were even a fair few from Gryffindor who were laughing as well. Grimacing, he stepped closer to see what was going on, standing on tiptoe to try and see through the forest of students. All he saw was Luna, however, retreating down a passage and disappearing from sight.

As the rest of the Slytherins sniggered, Malfoy spoke.

"That girl was definitely dropped on her head when she was a baby," he said sarcastically. "When she graduates, she wants to go to St. Mungo's, but I'm not sure if she means as a healer or patient. They've got a Wacky Ward there, don't they? It's called the Looney bin for a reason."

Harry felt his blood pressure rise, and his fists tense. He thought back to Neville's parents, to the image of them in St. Mungo's, not even recognising their own son. Their vacant faces were burned into the back of his eyes. Malfoy's Aunt Bellatrix had done that – had he no respect for the departed? Clearly not.

"I blame the parents," Malfoy continued, unaware of Harry's rising temper. "Her father's a few balls short of a snooker set, isn't he?"

It was as if the fog cleared. Harry suddenly saw what he needed to do. He saw how he could get them to trust him, to pity him. In his world, what had made him pity Neville the most had been the truth about his parents.

"If you knew what you were talking about, you'd be dangerous," said Harry loudly, putting the drink down. Silence fell and Malfoy's head turned slowly to face him. He was vaguely aware of the few students standing between them taking a step backwards to clear the line of fire.

"Ah," Malfoy said matter-of-factly. "Makes sense. You would know all about the Wacky Ward, Potter."

Harry stepped forward, not in outrage for his parents of this world, but more for Neville's. How could Malfoy be proud of what his aunt had done? How could he consider it a laughing matter? Harry remembered that this subject had nearly driven Neville to hit Malfoy once, and now he understood what his friend must have been feeling. This was as good a reason as any to hit him, arm be damned.

Harry hadn't managed another step before Neville grabbed him in a bear-hug, clamping his arms to his side and stopping him from moving.

"Cool it, Harry," he said quickly. "He's just trying to get a rise out of you."

"Luckily," said Malfoy even louder, ignoring Neville's interference, "the problem's now solved, isn't it? You could have all gone together, but you are so stupid you couldn't even die properly."

That was enough. Harry's real anger snapped, consuming his acting. He thrust his elbow backwards into Neville's stomach, knocking the air out of him. As Neville doubled up, Harry drew his wand. Malfoy followed suit, having had his ready. As the wands came level, Harry opened his mouth to cast a spell, but suddenly remembered what he was here to do, as the icy control of the Dark Knight took command.

A spell left Malfoy's wand and it took all Harry's self control not to move to the side. Instead he forced himself to hold his ground and waved his own wand clumsily.

"_Stupef…"_

He braced for impact, knowing he was wearing no armour.

The spell hit him in the gut, forcing the air out of him and launching him backward. He felt his limbs go numb as his feet left the ground and then he landed painfully on his back, sliding along the stone floor, his glasses slipping down below his nose. He lost his grip on his wand as he hit the cold, hard stone and the pain consumed him from within. His insides felt like they were on fire. He imagined this was what an ulcer felt like. Every organ felt like it was burning; it was like lemon or salt on a cut, like chilli in the eyes except all over his body. The pain began to grow, burning hotter and hotter, itching, blazing inside where he could never scratch. He broke out into a sweat and could feel himself going red as the heat surged through him. It was unbearable.

Forgetting the pretence, Harry reached for his wand and levelled it at Malfoy.

"_Stupefy!"_ he choked. A jet of red light shot from his wand, but his aim was off. The curse shot over Malfoy's shoulder, missing Parkinson by an inch and shooting harmlessly into the wall, which absorbed it without effect. It was enough to cause Malfoy to break the connection.

"What's going on here, then?" boomed a jolly voice before Harry or Malfoy could make another move.

Professor Slughorn had arrived through the crowd and Malfoy had hastily removed his wand from sight. Harry was able to breathe again. He sat on the floor massaging his stomach, still sweating and feeling really hot. The burning pain was gone, but he could feel a dull ache and he was still beet red. As the beefy potion's professor approached, Harry glanced around at the other students. Malfoy was leaning against the wall again casually, trying to look innocent. Neville – who had managed to straighten up after Harry had hit him – and Ron were tucking wands away, hiding the fact that they had been about to intervene. Hermione appeared shocked but sympathetic towards Harry. The rest of the students just looked slightly disappointed, as they always did when a fight was broken up. Through the gap Professor Slughorn had created in the body of students, Harry could see Katie watching him, her face passive but her eyebrows narrowed. Had it worked? Only time would tell, though she didn't seem overly impressed.

"Mr. Malfoy?" asked Slughorn, turning to face the boy.

"Nothing," shrugged Malfoy offhandedly. He shot a dirty glance at Harry, a smug expression on his pale face, "Although it seems Potter is just_burning_ to learn more about Potions, Professor. You might want to give him extra lessons, since he obviously needs help."

With that he, turned and strutted off into the classroom, leaving the teacher standing. Slughorn made no move to stop him.

"Potter?"

The walrus turned to face Harry, who was still shaking slightly as the aching slowly receded from his limbs. He still felt light-headed and a bit disorientated, but it was probable only a lasting effect of the spell. Whatever it had done to his organs was leaving him starved for oxygen and feeling faint. Most likely it would pass given time.

"I slipped," Harry lied, climbing shakily to his feet with Neville's help.

"All right, Harry?" Neville asked.

"I'm fine," he muttered, brushing his robes down. "Thanks."

The seventh year's professor had arrived by now and had ushered them into their own classroom further along the corridor. Professor Slughorn seemed satisfied that nothing was amiss and moved into the dungeon followed by the rest of the class, leaving only Harry and Neville out in the corridor. The sound of students unpacking floated out of the class, but the two Gryffindors were alone.

"What was all that about?" asked Neville in a whisper, presumably so that those sat nearest the door would not be able to overhear.

"You heard him," Harry said angrily, picking up his schoolbag, which had slipped off his shoulder in the confrontation. He had expected Malfoy to win – he knew that he was going to get hit before the fight even started – but still, the manner of his defeat angered Harry. He was expecting massive ears, huge toe-nails, something weird...not a near death experience.

_Bloody Malfoys and the bloody Dark Arts. _

Besides that, Harry was still angry that Malfoy could be so heartless and make jokes about what his aunt had done.

Neville didn't seem to get this and just looked puzzled.

"Yeah, something about St. Mungo's," Neville said, his face showing no signs of comprehension.

Harry shot him a piercing look. Neville's face suddenly fell and Harry knew that he had made the connection between the Wacky Ward reference and Harry. He actually felt sympathy for his friend when the guilt surfaced onto Neville's face.

_Oh Neville,_ thought Harry sadly._ It was actually your parents I was thinking of, not mine. Thank God you don't know. _

"Who?" Neville's eyes were wide and he looked a little ashen.

"You never thought it odd that I live with my aunt and uncle?" asked Harry. He immediately felt his own pang of guilt; he had known that Neville lived with his grandmother from the day they had met, but he never asked why until he found out in a Penseive in his fourth year. Four years it had taken for Harry to care enough for his friend to ask why, to discover why Neville had no mum and dad.

"Your parents?" asked Neville. "I knew they were killed in the blast they thought killed you, but I never realised why they were at St. Mungo's."

"No one does," said Harry, his voice level, unemotional. It took all his control to mask his feelings of pity and anger at the injustice and tragedy of the story, even though it wasn't his own. "Fifteen years they spent there, and the world forgot their names."

Harry turned and walked into the room, sliding on to a bench near the door. He thought back to Frank Longbottom and his wife Alice, wandering aimlessly in St. Mungo's. They had been in the Order, they had known what was happening, what Dumbledore had done with Harry. Two people of such character, even_ that_ curse could not force them to tell their secrets. The Longbottoms had chosen insanity rather than betrayal, just as Lily Potter had once chosen death in order to protect her son. That was the greatest tragedy...that such honourable people had given their lives.

Harry knew he owed Neville's parents a debt. They didn't tell the Lestranges about Harry, about the Order, or about what had happened to Voldemort. They had been heroes. Above that they had been good parents, judging by how Neville had turned out here. Harry remembered what Frank had been like in the Unholy Land after losing his family – bitter and twisted. But in this world, this was how the Longbottom family should have been all along.

Disgusted at the injustice of it all, Harry made his way into the potions classroom and picked an empty seat near the back. To Harry's annoyance, Neville slid onto the bench next to him, determined to continue with the questions.

"Merlin, what happened?" he asked, unpacking his bag. Luckily the noise of everyone unpacking was enough to cover their conversation.

_Why not?_ thought Harry. After all, it had happened to Neville in another lifetime. These weren't his real parents, and the sympathy might aid in his mission to get close to this DA.

He leaned in close so that only Neville could hear. "After _He_ fell," Harry said in a conspiratorial tone, "they were caught by the Death Eaters, desperate to know what had happened to their master. They wanted information about who had caused _his_ downfall and where that person was. My parents were a pair of Aurors, Riddle's old favourites – the perfect targets. Do you know what happens when you use the Cruciatus Curse for a prolonged period of time?"

"Merlin, they didn't!"

Harry nodded grimly. "If it goes on for long enough," he said keeping his voice emotionless, "it destroys the victim's mind. They have no memories, feelings, nothing. They are empty shells, hollow shadows of their former selves. I went to visit them every week during the Christmas and Easter holidays, but they didn't even recognise their own son."

"Blimey," breathed Neville. "And Malfoy knows this?"

"He knows," Harry growled, his voice harder. "It was his aunt who did it, the woman who escaped from Azkaban last winter, Bellatrix Lestrange. She was the ring-leader that night. Looks like she told her darling nephew everything. Part of me wishes I would meet Bellatrix in a dark alley. Part of me knows that I wouldn't stand a chance, not with my Defence marks," he added hinting towards the DA.

"I'm sorry, Harry. I never knew," Neville breathed almost apologetically.

"No one does," said Harry, turning to Neville, his voice firmer. "And it has to stay that way. I don't need extra attention or pity. I've had enough of those already to last a lifetime." He paused for dramatic effect and even gave a small sigh. "I just wish I knew as much as you and Katie so that if I ever had to defend myself from the likes of her I wouldn't end up like my parents..."

"I…er…," said Neville shiftily. He seemed to be thinking about something and wrestling with his conscience, eventually coming to a hesitant decision.

"I might know of something that could be of help," he said at last. Harry's ears pricked up at the offer. Neville didn't state outright what he meant, but Harry had a fair idea.

"Really?" Harry deliberately tried to sound unconvinced. _Come on Neville... mention the DA,_ he screamed inside his head.

"Yeah," said Neville, looking more determined now. "I'll talk to Katie this evening, and I'll get back to you."

"You're being very mysterious," Harry said, raising an eyebrow. It was enough flattery to appear interested without appearing nosey. Harry was convinced he was referring to the DA. Still, he figured he had better test the water, in case Neville was referring to something else. "This isn't anything illegal or dangerous, is it?"

"It depends on how you define illegal," Neville said with a lop-sided smile.

Harry managed not to look smug. That certainly sounded like the DA to him.

But then Neville suddenly became more wary. He cast a quick glance around the room and lowered his voice to a whisper. "I've already said too much," he added, "Look, I'll get back to you this evening."

"RIGHT, WHEN YOU ARE READY…" boomed Professor Slughorn, waddling over to the board. It was time for the lesson to begin.

XXXXXX

"No, no, and hell no," said Katie firmly. There was no way on earth this was going to happen. Over her dead body!

They were in a deserted classroom where Neville had beckoned her after her Transfiguration class. She stood near the window, hands on hips and an expression of anger on her face.

"Katie," said Neville with strained patience. "Stop to think about this for a second."

"I have," snapped Katie, refusing to be patronised by him. "And I don't trust him."

"He's harmless." Neville looked at Katie as if she was crazy. "Look, we've always tried to keep an eye out for him, right? He's always been a friend, so why have we never invited him before? He clearly needs it."

Katie grimaced with a pang of guilt.

"Look," she said, brushing the hair out of her eyes impatiently. "I admit, that it would have been more friendly of us to have invited him in the first place. If it wasn't for recent events, we probably would have by now. But that doesn't mean I trust him now, and it certainly doesn't mean you can just go up to anyone and invite them without asking"

"Asking who?" asked Neville, angrier now. "Should I beg your permission, Your Highness? Who are you to give orders? Is this Pax Kathriana?"

"No!" protested Katie hotly. She wasn't that arrogant. "And don't use my full name. My point is that the old Harry we would have invited by now, but this _isn't_the old Harry."

"So, he toughened up a bit," he shot back. "You of all people should understand how a shock like that can change a person. One minute he was visiting his parents in St. Mungo's, and the next…" He sighed in frustration. "If you had any idea what happened to his parents you might be a little less of a–"

"A what?" Katie demanded, her temper rising to the surface. She glowered at Neville but there was no fear in his eyes, just anger that matched her own.

"Ice queen," finished Neville calmly, managing to settle himself down a bit. Katie saw him take a strained breath before he spoke again. "If you knew what…"

"I DO KNOW," snapped Katie, before she could stop herself. She had promised Riddle she wouldn't tell anyone, but this was in the interests of everyone. Neville froze on those words. Katie took a deep breath, wishing she was somewhere else. Her temper, which was always bubbling these days it seemed, retreated for a moment as she felt a wave of pity for Harry. "I found out last year," she confessed. "In a Pensive in Riddle's office. I saw the trial of the Lestranges and Barty Crouch Junior. I know why the Potters were in St. Mungo's."

"So you know that he goes to visit them every week when he's at home?" asked Neville in an accusing tone.

Katie knew he was driving his point home.

"Or at least he did," Neville continued. "Did you know that he used to go to see his parents every holiday and that they didn't even recognise him, their own son? Grindelwald took everything from him, and you still think he has it in him to be a traitor? One minute he was visiting his parents, the next he wakes up from a coma to find that his parents are dead. He is all alone in Muggle London and is barely alive. Is it any wonder that he toughened up, that his grief has made him a little out of character? You saw what Malfoy did this afternoon. A little training is just what Harry needs."

Katie took a deep breath, determined not to shout. "Two things. One, Grindelwald may have taken everything from him, but we are fighting Umbridge – a different kettle of fish. Secondly, have you ever considered that the whole thing was set?" she asked. "That Potter staged that fight?"

"Come on, Katie," said Neville with annoyance. "You're reaching!"

"Am I?" she asked, her temper firing up again. "Umbridge knows we are up to something. Her decree banned new clubs the day after we formed. She knows something is going on, she knows it's me, but she doesn't know what we're up to yet. What if she sent Potter to find out?"

"Harry doesn't have it in him," Neville insisted loyally. "Whatever he is, he's not a traitor."

"He doesn't have the strength to stand up to Umbridge," Katie maintained with conviction. "He's been quizzing Hermione about lessons, hovering around the Common room, listening in on our conversations... and that doesn't even touch on his new found habit of wandering around as if he hasn't a care in the world."

"Ever considered that perhaps he is trying to be more friendly?" asked Neville. "He has no parents now. Maybe he needs some friends, people who'll look out for him – you of all people should understand that."

"Of course I do," Katie conceded, leaning wearily against the wall. "Listen, Neville. The best-case scenario is that you're right and he has just grown up. The training would teach him to stand up to Malfoy. However, the worst-case scenario is that I'm right and Umbridge is using him to get to us. He set up the whole fight with Malfoy to get our pity, to make us invite him. Somehow I just know it." No matter what Neville thought she knew she was right. The question was why he had done it. What was his true motivation?

"He wouldn't," Neville said, though he was suddenly less sure. "Anyway, he couldn't – Hermione's parchment would let us know."

"But only after he's betrayed us," Katie pointed out. Hermione's jinx was merely a way to catch the sneak; it didn't stop anyone going to Umbridge. "And only you, me, Hermione, Ron and Ginny know about that anyway," she added.

"But it's Harry," Neville said again. "He wouldn't do something like that. He may not be a fighter, but he's always been honest with us."

"Until now," said Katie. In her mind's eye she could see those deep emerald eyes, that insatiable calm. She didn't understand why she kept finding herself drawn to those eyes. They were allegedly the windows to the soul, and it was through these that she saw the differences to the old Harry. There was something mysterious behind them, perhaps even dangerous, like a great secret. She felt a chill run down her spine, which only served to reinforce her resolve. "Like I said, a few weeks ago no problem, but now I'm not so sure. You have to admit that there is something strange about him. His attitude, manner, even physical appearance has changed slightly."

"You'd lose weight on a liquid diet for a month, too," Neville said defensively. "And then he walked from London to Scotland."

Katie's own temper started to boil again but she managed to hold it down. "He said he hitch-hiked and then walked through the Forbidden Forest," she said. "He didn't walk that far."

"But it was through the Forbidden Forest," he said with respect. "You've been in there, we both have. We know what lurks in the darkness. Whatever he saw in there must make the school seem timid. If he was brave enough for that, Umbridge wouldn't scare him that much. Neither would Malfoy - that might explain why he shows no fear."

"Maybe," said Katie, unconvinced. "I just can't shake a feeling that there is something incredibly…_wrong_ about him."

"But that isn't a reason to abandon him." Neville crossed his arms. "Now, more than ever, he needs friends. Gryffindors stick together, right?"

Katie stared at him for a long moment. Neville continue to stare back unblinking for the entire pause. She knew she was right, but she could never make him see. She could understand where he was coming from, she really could; it was not as if she was ignoring his argument. She had heard him out and still disagreed. It was something guttural, such a basic instinct that told her Harry was up to something. Her instincts had thus far served her relatively well and she was inclined to trust them. Logically she would agree with Neville, Harry was very much like her now. He was an orphan who had lost his parents to this war and nearly his own life as well. By his own admission he had grown up where he was unappreciated, and true, he needed friends. But there was something else there...every warning bell in her head went off every time he was around.

The question was, did she rely on logic, her instinct, or on someone else's instincts in this matter? Which of the three was more reliable right now?

"Oh, all right," Katie said, stepping away from the wall. "Me, you, Ginny, Hermione, and Ron makes five. Majority vote. We will abide by the decision, alright?"

It was a compromise, but it seemed fair. Maybe she was just being prejudiced against Harry because of her gut feeling, and perhaps she was wrong. Democracy in action would solve their debate. Neville also seemed to accept the offer.

"Agreed."

XXXXXX

True to his word, Neville got back to Harry right after dinner that evening. Harry had been finishing off a hastily written essay for potions class at the time. Naturally, given his situation, he had put the minimum of effort in, just enough to get Professor Slughorn off his back and enable him to continue his analysis of the diary. However, he wasn't really feeling up to reading the diary either. He'd had a full day of lessons topped by additional charms, then the best part of an hour writing an essay. He was mentally exhausted. In addition, he also had a headache. He had thought that it was due to the long lessons in stuffy rooms, especially the potions dungeon which was sweltering in the heat of the bubbling cauldrons. Then again, he had a sneaking feeling that it was an after effect of Malfoy's curse, whatever that had been. His insides still felt a little odd and he had hardly been able to eat a thing for dinner. He planned to turn in early and sleep it off.

It was quarter past eight and Harry was situated in the Common Room at one of the tables, putting the finishing touches to his essay. It was now a force of habit, but he looked up any time the Portrait opened and someone entered. His peripheral vision was always looking for movement near him, for any sign of the threat. The Dark Knight was on constant alert as Harry worked. This time as the Portrait opened, Neville climbed through into the Common Room. He paused for a second, looking around for Harry. Harry, himself, kept his head lowered as if reading his work, though in truth watching Neville. He did not wish to seem too eager.

Another few seconds passed and then Neville sank into the seat next to Harry and put his feet up on the coffee table Harry had been leaning on to write.

"Alright?" he asked. "How're you feeling?"

"Plodding onwards," replied Harry, placing his quill back in the pot and leaning back in his seat facing Neville. "Malfoy isn't strong enough for the curse to have had any lasting effect. Professor Slughorn's essays on the other hand…I'm sure there's something in the Geneva Convention about them."

Neville laughed, sounding slightly confused. Harry could see that he didn't really understand the joke, and also that underneath the laughter, Neville was serious and wished to move the conversation on.

"There's no getting around Slughorn," Neville said. "And as for Malfoy, well, he still landed one on you."

"If nothing else, it's curbed his desire for revenge," said Harry, shrugging, though he had noted that Neville was focusing on the fight. This looked promising.

"Oh I doubt it," said Neville with sigh. "The story, along with a rather poor impression of you thrashing around like a fish, is doing the rounds. I heard a couple of Hufflepuffs saying that they heard all about it from Bulstrode."

"Yeah, but no one believes Bulstrode," said Harry with a laugh, remembering her reputation from his own world. "Didn't Malfoy once convince her that when the tide goes out, the sea stays still and the land moves? The guy's a tosser, but I have to admit, that was funny."

"Yeah, well, my point is that these days no one seems to be able to tell fact from fiction," Neville said more gravely this time.

Harry nodded. Neville had hit the nail on the head; lies spread further than ever these days.

"That is why we precious few need to stick together."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked carefully, though he already knew. Neville was talking about the DA. This was it. Harry fought to keep his excitement from his face.

"There are those of us who believe what Katie says," said Neville in whisper, he removed his feet from the table and sat up, leaning forward.

"You mean all that stuff about the Dark Lord being back?" asked Harry, feigning ignorance. _De Niro has nothing on me, _he thought inwardly. He leaned forward in his chair, in close to Neville.

Neville nodded. "What do you think?" he asked pointedly.

Harry paused, choosing his words cautiously. This was Neville's little test, he knew.

"Katie is under a lot of strain, and we've both seen her temper," Harry said. "She is a lot of things, but she is not a liar. I think she's telling the truth, and with all that's happened since and Fudge's reaction…I believe her."

A small flash of victory spread over Neville's face.

"Given the chance, would you help her?" he asked.

"I don't see how I can," Harry replied, his face a mask of innocence. He couldn't make it too easy for Neville.

"He_is_ back," Neville said firmly. "And we have to be ready. Umbridge won't let us learn, so we have been forced to find someone else to teach us."

"Really?" asked Harry feigning interest. "Who?"

"Katie."

Harry paused, raising his eyebrows and trying to look astonished. "But she's just a student…"

"With more experience than half the Auror division," said Neville. His tone was firm but not aggressive, as if asserting a fact he really believed in. "Aside from Riddle, she's the only one to ever face the Dark Lord and walk away."

"In that respect she certainly is qualified," noted Harry, though trying to keep his voice sounding hesitant and nervous. "So what do you want me to do?"

"You said earlier that you wished you could so what Katie can," said Neville. "You wished you had the skills so that you would never end up like your parents." Harry nodded, struggling to hide his excitement as he sensed victory. "We can help with that: we have decided to invite you to join the RA."

"I'd lo…" began Harry, relieved that he had finally been invited. He had been about to say that he would love to, but then suddenly he paused. "The what?" he asked.

"RA," repeated Neville, looking quite pleased with himself now. "Not to be confused with the IRA, though Seamus is a member," he added with a grin.

Harry looked blankly at him.

"We had trouble with the name," conceded Neville shrugging. "The 'I Hate Umbridge Society' was suggested, 'Defence Association' was quite popular. Some idiot even wanted to call it the 'Anti-Umbridge League'''. Then a third year wanted to call it the Rebel Alliance after a film he likes, and from there we changed the acronym to Riddle's Army. Stopping an army is Umbridge's whole reason for being here…"

"…And you are doing it right under her nose," said Harry, finishing the sentence and grinning. "Ironic."

Harry paused for a moment. Of course it wouldn't be named after a man who had been dead for fifty years. Harry had been foolish not to realise that it wouldn't be called the DA. Still, the name was of no consequence. What mattered was what they learned in the meetings.

"So what do you say?" asked Neville, once again looking around to make sure they were alone. "Yes or no? Ja oder nein? Oui ou non?" He paused for a second.

"Where do I sign?" Harry said, nodding his head.

Neville's poker-face faltered for a fraction of a second before he laughed. Harry was suddenly aware that Neville looked awkward.

"What?"

Neville straightened up, "It's funny you should mention signing," he said in a roundabout way.

Harry suddenly remembered Hermione's contract and the 'Sneak' affect of blabbing.

"Do I have to sign something that will strike me down if I tell?" said Harry lightly, making a joke of it. "Perhaps I should do it in my own blood?" He grinned at Neville watching the other boy squirm.

"Well, personally, I used ink and a quill," said Neville after an uncomfortable pause. "But yes, you need to sign." Neville tried to make light of it, but Harry knew that he had caught him off-guard. He managed to keep the smirk from his face. He was better at this game than Neville.

The other boy reached into his robes and removed a rolled up sheet of parchment. He rolled it out flat and passed Harry a small quill. Harry took it and leaned down to read the paper. Neville shifted in his seat, using his body to block the sheet from the rest of the room.

Across the top of the sheet were the words 'Riddle's Army'. Beneath it was a list of names, topped by Kathryn Bell. Harry paused - he had not realised that Katie couldn't be her full name. It was just something he had always accepted without really thinking about it. Putting the thought aside, Harry scanned the list quickly. Hermione, Ron, Neville and Ginny were at the top, and there were plenty more names. Twenty-six in total, and sure enough Harry found Luna Lovegood etched in swirly writing near the bottom. The names were almost identical to the DA, except for those who had graduated. These had been replaced by several names Harry didn't recognise. He also noted with a grimace that Marietta and Cho were also on the list. Harry sighed before lifting the quill and signing his name at the bottom of the parchment.

"There you go," said Neville. "All done. You just need this." He held out a coin to Harry. Harry took it and examined it, though he already knew what it was. Still, for appearance's sake, he tried to look confused.

"Normally, members pay the membership fee, not the other way around," he said, flipping the coin in his hand.

"It isn't real, so don't spend it," Neville replied, his tone level and serious. "When was the coin made?"

Harry examined the coin turning it so he could read the date stamped into the metal.

"Hang on," he said. Last year had taught him to read the roman numbers easily with all the practice he had had with these coins, however he chose to pretend he was having trouble. "I hate Roman Numerals. It says… hang on! Apparently it was made tomorrow evening at 7." He scrunched his face up in puzzlement. "Galleons don't have the time on them, do they?"

"Exactly," said Neville, looking mildly smug. "That is the time of the next meeting. Seventh floor, Barnibus the Barmy tapestry. Someone will be there to show you how to get in."

"Cool," said Harry, pocketing the coin. "Hermione's invention I take it?"

"Who else?" asked Neville, standing up and tucking the parchment back inside his robes. He pocketed the quill and glanced quickly around. "Well, I've got to get going. See you tomorrow."

"Oh, Neville," said Harry as the other boy turned to leave. "You don't happen to have anything for a headache do you?"

"Not on me," said Neville. "Malfoy's curse still hurting?"

Harry shrugged, "Might just be from spending the day in hot classrooms and not drinking enough."

"Hmm," said Neville. "Tried Pomfrey?"

"No," said Harry with an exasperated look. "I am not spending a month in bed for a headache. I'll sleep it off."

Neville shrugged and turned to leave. Harry waved as Neville disappeared into the rabble of students and out through the portrait hole. He felt a curious sensation of power at having successfully manipulated Neville and made him squirm. He had given Neville the idea of inviting him and made Neville think that it was his own idea.

"Well Miss Moneypenny," said Harry under his breath in his best Sean Connery accent. "I have infiltrated the RA. Time for a pumpkin juice, shaken not stirred." Mission accomplished. Harry saw little point in remaining here, and so decided it was best to have another look at the book before turning in for the night.

Over the last week, Harry had spent an hour or so almost every evening trying to find something useful in the diary, however so far he had drawn a blank. Harry had covered about a third of the book, and had folded down the page where he was reached.

As he entered the dorm he crossed to his bed and drew the curtains. Propping himself up so that he was leaning on the headboard, he opened his Charms textbook and tucked the diary inside it. Should any inconsiderate git open the curtains, they would see him revising.

Harry fluffed up a pillow and put it behind his back and then began to read. As before, it was utter drivel.

This part was all about one experiment that had apparently led nowhere. Harry decided to skip forward a few pages and began to read again.

_Ah, this is more like it._

He had stumbled across the author's research into the history of the subject, into a list of people who had attempted such research. None of them he recognised, but then again, he didn't expect to. The diary began as far back as ancient Greece, just what Harry was looking for. With renewed interest he began reading the neat script of the paragraph.

Unfortunately, it was just a very longwinded explanation of what he already knew. There was a legend that an order, a sort of cult, had discovered a mineral that conducted temporal energy in sufficient quantities to punch a hole in the fabric of space. While they had failed time-travel, the legend spoke of how they found another world. Apparently a device was made and travel was possible. However, then all travel and use of the device suddenly stopped. The author surmised, and Harry believed that it was complete guesswork, that something had happened...something to scare the creators. The author believed that the cult discovered a world that was utterly hostile, perhaps a bitter reflection of their own or perhaps containing a creature so terrifying that it was deemed unsafe. Either way, this device was buried and hidden, never again to be used. Apparently it was regarded by some as the Holy Grail of time-travel theology. According to the author there had been many expeditions to find this lost treasure over the years.

_Hah, I know where it is…_ thought Harry to himself. _But I don't have the damn key. Where is that? _

Harry continued to read. Apparently the device itself may have been moved several times. Various sightings had been reported over the years but as always with conspiracy theories and myths, none of it could be substantiated. One paragraph that caught Harry's attention said that in the first millennium AD, the device was moved to England. The reason for this apparently was that its previous location had been taken over by a warlord into whose hands the device must never fall, so the descendants of the creators moved the device to England. It was then mixed up in Arthurian legend. Rumours of the doorway appeared throughout the later half of the second millennium. Apparently the 'doorway', as the author called it, appeared in France in the 1600's, allegedly, but was thought to have been returned to England.

The next chapter went into more detail on the Arthurian legends it had mentioned earlier. It almost made Harry laugh as he read how, it was rumoured to be the Node through which Arthur and his Knights had ridden to return at a time of England's need.

_Hardly_, scoffed Harry.

Then again, it did explain what it was doing in England. He didn't believe the Knights of the Round Table had gone through it, but he knew it was in this country. Anyhow, the Node moved space not time, so even if they did go through, they would long since be dead. Still, it made for a good bedtime story.

The next paragraph was less useful. It was a list of seven points over the course of which, the author described exactly why this whole story was not true and how such a device could not exist. Hmm, not so encouraging. Just as Harry was about to admit that perhaps this guy did know what he was on about, he had managed to completely lose his confidence. He very nearly tossed the book over this shoulder and decided to start looking elsewhere, but then he remembered Hermione once telling him that God was in the details and that if he skimmed, he would miss what really mattered. Nine times out of ten, the answer was staring you in the face, and you just have to open your eyes to see it. Or ask Hermione.

Harry took a moment to stretch being cautious of hurting his arm, and then continued with the book, skipping a few pages here and there if the text was about something else. The story came to a quick end and the author went on to talk about other experiments that were supposed to have been done to attempt to travel through time.

Against his own advice, Harry skipped through the next bit, as it merely listed a load of experiments, none of which had worked. He had flicked through over a third of the book by now, and was loosing both faith and patience. Had his trip to Knockturn Alley been in vain? Had the price of hurting his arm been for nothing?

He flicked a few more pages and then something circled in red caught his eye. Harry peered in closer to read the tiny writing.

_Quibbler,  
June 1989,  
Page 63._

Beneath it was a single word, also in red: 'YES'.

Could it be that Luna's dad had inadvertently stumbled across the story? This was the sort of implausible legend that would make the Quibbler interested. Maybe he was just spilling out the legend, or maybe he had found something more substantial. The author seemed to believe so, but the author had been wrong before. Either way, it was too late to worry about it tonight.

Harry checked his watch – it was gone eleven. Tomorrow he would speak to Luna and try to get his hands on an old copy. The library stored old_ Prophets_ in the archive, but Harry somewhat doubted that they would stock the Quibbler. He wrote the word Luna on the back of his hand as a reminder of what he needed to do.

That done he decided it was time to turn in. He closed the diary and put it back in his trunk, which he then locked. Removing his shirt he unwound the bandage from his arm and inspected the wound. The skin had healed over, but skin was but the top layer and there was still clearly a lot of damage underneath. Tissue needed to reconnect, muscles needed to heal, blood flow needed to be restored and Harry had no idea what to do. He didn't know how to heal a paper-cut let alone this kind of injury. He had done his best, but it was far from perfect. In the flickering light of the lamp he could see that his shoulder was covered in an ugly purple bruise, spanning form his collar bone to nearly his elbow. It was painful to the touch and sent streaking pain to his entire left side when he stretched it. It was as if newly healed muscle was ripping again. As long as he kept it still, he was alright, and he could carry very light loads. That was about it. To top it all, his insides still ached from Malfoy's curse and his head was still aching.

_You're a wreck, Harry,_ he told himself. _No more fights until you are healed!_

XXXXXX

In all honestly, by the time lessons finished the next day Harry was bristling with nerves and excitement, and feeling rather sick because of it. He knew that it was nothing that he hadn't seen before. He knew that he would be able to do almost everything that they were learning and he knew that it wasn't his lesson to run, but he was definitely looking forward to his first RA meeting. At the same time he was feeling rather nervous as well. He was caught between the desire to impress, and the need keep a low profile, and he was nervous that he might give something away. He was also feeling rather ill…again.

Thankfully, his insides weren't sore anymore, at least not in the way they had been. His stomach still felt a bit odd and had cramped a few times making him feel rather sick at times, but it didn't feel as if his insides were burning like before. His headache had returned shortly after lunch, the night's sleep having done little to alleviate it. Maybe it was Malfoy's curse lasting longer than he had thought or maybe he was just coming down with a cold. Even the great Boy-Who-Lived was not immune to the common cold and if Malfoy's curse had scrambled his insides, it might have knocked out his immune system temporarily leaving him open to the flu. Wouldn't Malfoy love that.

He thrust the thought of a gloating Malfoy aside. It was a scientific fact that Man-Flu was worse than Girly-Flu and gave any man the right to stay in bed all day and complain loudly, but Harry had work to do and it wasn't that bad yet. Besides, he had a meeting to attend.

Part of him wanted Katie's RA to be good, a roaring success, but part of him didn't want it to be better than his DA. There was pride in the DA for Harry, and he didn't want to admit that Katie had done a better job than he had at assembling an army. Still, that didn't mean he would sabotage it. During his daydream in Potions that day, (Dosage calculations were done purely by theory. The Half Blood Prince was of little help and so Harry had spent most of the time daydreaming), Harry had been planning how best to handle his behaviour for the evening.

Naturally, he did not want to draw too much attention to himself so throwing powerful hexes around was not in the cards, but at the same time he didn't want to be so bad that he slowed people down and drew attention that way, either. Then again, being able to do everything would invite the question, where had he learned to do it all? He was in a precarious position. If he was being perfectly objective, he might have realised that this was an inherently dangerous move. It risked showing abnormal ability and even exposing that he was not being entirely truthful with them. The sensible move would have been to avoid this extra contact with these people and keep himself isolated as much as possible. He no longer needed to befriend Hermione; since the Arithmancy needed to get him home was beyond her, she was now obsolete. Luna he could speak to at any time, for his request was not unusual and didn't reveal anything dangerous. In short, he had no real reason to go, except one – his fatal curiosity. It was a good thing that he wasn't a cat.

In truth there was another reason for going, one that he didn't even admit to himself: he was homesick. He had been at war for so long that his desire to be back where he belonged, at Hogwarts with his friends, was almost tangible. He wanted to be a part of it again, to live as he once had before things had gone so wrong. He knew this wasn't his world and knew he mustn't get too involved, but just being there, surrounded by old friends would make him feel better, he thought. He wanted to feel that wonderful feeling as the light came on for those around him and they finally understood. Even though he wasn't teaching, he just wished he could be back in the DA, and this was as close as he was going to get.

_Harry Potter, _he thought to himself with a silent chuckle as he set off for the meeting. _Are you getting sentimental in your old age? _

At the appointed time, Harry stood waiting across from the tapestry of old Barny on the seventh floor. It wasn't long before Neville appeared. Harry nodded as he joined him. The other boy looked around cautiously and cocked his head, looking for any sign of someone approaching. After a few seconds he faced Harry again.

"Observe," Neville told him. "You walk past three times, thinking that you need to see the headquarters of the RA. You need to concentrate hard and the door will appear…like so."

Harry watched, his expression neutral, as Neville did as he had said, and sure enough, the door appeared. Neville reached for the handle and pulled, opening the door outwards. He gestured for Harry to go inside with a mock bow. As Harry stepped across the threshold, he felt a wave of homesickness wash over him. The room was exactly as he remembered, right down to the lightly scented smell of the cushions. The shelves were full of books and lined with all manner of tools and dark detectors. Over twenty students were gathered around in a horseshoe shape, and at the centre of the group, stood the girl herself. All eyes turned to them as they entered. Harry just stared at Katie.

Katie wore her uniform, except that she had swapped her skirt for some trousers. She had removed her jumper, leaving just her shirt, which was open at the top and the sleeves had been rolled up. Her hair was tied back and she was all business.

_God, I wish I had looked that good, _thought Harry, remembering his nervous jittery manner in the early sessions of the DA.

Katie's eyes swept over Harry, looking him up and down. There was a definite coolness in her face, and Harry had a sudden feeling that it had taken a lot of persuading to get him here. Harry was fairly sure that she didn't trust him. He made a note to keep his head down. He briefly considered warning her about Marietta, but decided it was best to wait. It was not his place to intervene, and she would want to know how he knew. The others stood watching Harry, waiting for someone to explain. After a moment, Katie did.

"You all know Harry Potter," she said, her tone formal and business-like. "He is the latest addition to our group." That was all the introduction she afforded him, for the next sentence was clearly the start of the lesson.

"Now," said Katie, her voice raised so that everyone could hear. Her tone was assertive and confident, the opposite of what Harry had been. "So far we've made good progress on blocking, shielding, and disarming. Today, I want to go on to something a little more…robust." A murmur of excitement floated around the room. As it died down, Katie spoke again, apparently a master orator. "Before we go any further, I must remind you that you mustn't use these spells outside of this room. If everyone starts throwing these hexes around, Umbitch will start asking questions and sooner or later she is going to realise what we are up to. We need to keep a low profile. I don't care how much of an annoying little git Malfoy is, you do not retaliate with what we learn here, understood?"

"Yes, Ma'am," said someone loudly. A snigger moved around the room, and Katie threw an annoyed glance at someone to Harry's left.

"Right, in that case, over the next month we are going to build up your arsenal of offensive spells," she announced to the general approval of the room. "We will start today with the most common and useful offensive spell. I am talking about Stunning," said Katie.

"No need," said Neville, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. "I'm already stunning. If I get any more handsome…."

"Thanks for volunteering, Neville," said Katie, beckoning him forward. "Hermione, can you get the man a cushion?"

Neville's smile faded as he stepped forward. The crowd around him fell back, giving him more room. Harry was beginning to like this new, confident Neville. He had a weird but funny sense of humour. As for Katie, Harry had to admit he was impressed. She was more abrasive, more aggressive than he had been in her position. As such, she had more of a presence in the room and was proving to be a better teacher.

_Maybe it's because she's a girl, _Harry decided. Girls were swottier and generally made better teachers. Deep down, however, he knew it was his damaged pride being resentful but he felt better thinking it.

As Hermione put a cushion behind where Neville was standing, Harry watched his friend do some melodramatic stretches and jogging on the spot, punching the air, much to the amusement of several of the onlookers and himself.

Katie took out her wand.

"A Stunning Curse does exactly what it says on the tin," she said. "It stuns the victim. Depending on the strength of the curse, this can mean he or she is just fazed and disorientated for a few moments, or it can render someone completely unconscious. What I want is for each and every one of you to be able to stun someone to the point where the victim is completely unconscious. Death Eaters will kill you on the spot, so we need to make sure that when they go down, they do not get back up again…but without killing them," she added quickly.

"Can't a Stunner kill though?" asked someone to Harry's right.

"Not that I know of," Katie answered politely.

"I'm sure I've heard of one killing someone," said the girl more firmly.

"Not in itself," said Harry before he could stop himself, as he had once had a similar conversation in the past.

Several eyes turned to him, including a suspicious looking Katie. He now had no choice but to explain, he just needed to think of a reason why he might know this. "The spell only knocks the person unconscious, it depends what the person lands on. In water for example, they can drown, or if they land on their head…" Harry trailed off before he dug himself a deeper hole. He quickly recovered. "There was a man in St. Mungo's when I visited my parents. He had been stunned and had fallen out of a first floor window and had brain damage. He died a week or so later from the fall, not the curse."

The girl backed down, looked slightly paler.

"We'll take your word for it," said Katie, moving the lesson on after a quick appraising glance. "Anyhow, despite what Harry has said, here we have cushions here to catch you safely, and there is no water to drown in so we are safe to practice. The wand movement is this," she demonstrated the movement with her wand, and the others imitated.

Harry held his wand in his right hand and clumsily copied what Katie was doing.

"The incantation is 'Stupefy'," she announced, speaking slowly and carefully. "Neville, brace yourself." Neville tensed as Katie aimed her wand at him.

"_STUPEFY!"_

The spell hit Neville in the stomach. He rocketed backwards, the force bending him in two, his head and arms, ending up near his legs as he fell backwards into the cushions with a flump. There was a gasp as he did not get back up again.

"Cool!" said someone loudly as Neville landed. There was a short pause as everyone surveyed the fallen Neville. Katie calmly walked towards him and knelt next to his body. She raised her wand and swept it across his face.

"_Enervate,"_she said and Neville opened his eyes.

"Ow!" announced Neville with a pained expression. He sat up slowly, and clumsily made to get up.

"Stay down for a second," Hermione said quickly.

"Eh, why?" asked Neville.

"If you get up too quickly you will faint all over again," Hermione informed him. "Trust me. Take a second for your circulation to right itself and then get up slowly."

Katie turned her attention back to the group. "As you heard, the counter curse is _Enervate_. The effect of the Stunning Curse after it's been removed is generally disorientation and confusion. It takes a few moments to get your bearings again. As Hermione has said, in this lesson take a minute before you jump back up or you will knacker yourself and you'll end up so weak you have no hope of managing the spell. In an actual fight, you'd get your arse into gear and get out of there as soon as you could, but for now take your time and do it right. By the end of the week let's see if we can get everyone stunning and reviving. Okay, find a partner, and I will come around."

This Harry realised was his chance. He slipped quickly to the right, and headed around to where he had spotted a familiar mop of blond hair.

"Would you like to be my partner, Luna?" asked Harry politely as he arrived beside her. The girl turned slowly, her eyes wide and her expression dreamy. Of all the people he had met across all three worlds, the one person who never changed one iota was Luna, a thought which caused an affectionate smile to creep across his features. Whatever people said about her, she was always honest, reliable, and possessed a heart of gold – if a bit vacant and odd.

"Of course, Harry Potter," she replied, her eyes wide and her tone mildly confused – a tone that suited her expression. "People don't usually ask me to be their partners, though. I'm usually the one to go around looking, or just simply do without. It is nice to be asked."

"Well, this is my first time at the RA," said Harry, before realising what he had said could be construed as insulting. "I mean….I didn't mean…" he stammered.

"I know what you meant," said Luna dreamily. "Should we make a start, then? Kathryn does seem to be in an awful hurry tonight. Personally, I think she's got a rather large chip on her shoulder."

Harry managed to hold in a laugh, and just nodded. Luna had the ability to see what was happening and was completely unafraid to voice it, no matter how embarrassing or cringe-worthy it may seem. She was completely unfazed as she voiced awkward truths that most people would not dare bring up, but Harry had to admire her powers of perception. He wondered if Luna had worked out that he was the chip on Katie's shoulder.

Harry took a few steps backwards so that they had room to practice.

"You go first," he offered.

Luna dreamily reached into her robes and removed her wand. She raised it up, adopting a duelling pose. After a second's pause she moved the wand in the way that Katie had indicated, her eyes staring unfocussed at the tip of the wand. She repeated the gesture three times, before looking up at Harry who stood waiting.

"_Stupefy!"_ she said, swishing her wand as taught. Nothing happened – the wand didn't so much as glow.

Harry could hear the shouts all around them and a flash of red from the direction of Hermione. Part of Harry wanted to cast a proper one to really show her how it was done, but self-control took a hold of him.

"More aggression," suggested Harry, trying to look like he didn't know what he was talking about. "Concentrate on the spell hitting me, not on the word itself."

It was often the way, at least in his own experience, that he got so bogged down in pronouncing the word correctly that he forgot to concentrate on the spell itself. Yes, the word had to be pronounced correctly, but he often ended up only listening to himself say the word rather than the spell. That way, even if he got the pronunciation correct, nothing would happen.

Luna tried again. _"Stupefy!"_

The wand tip glowed reddish-orange for a second and then faded. Harry opened his mouth to offer further advice, but noticed that Katie had arrived behind Luna and was watching them.

"Good evening, Kathryn," said Luna dreamily to Katie. She then turned, almost in a pirouette, to face Harry once more. "Ready, Harry?" she asked in a sing-song voice.

He nodded, bracing himself.

"_Stupefy!"_ shouted Luna.

This time a thin beam of red light shot out of her wand and struck Harry on his left arm. The spell didn't cause him to black out, but rather hiss in agony and clutch the injured arm which had been hit square by the spell. Shivers of pain shot through his body. He staggered back a pace under the impact of the spell and, falling to one knee, hissing in pain. It was all he could do not to cry out. The spell was not strong enough to knock him out but he felt a wave of dizziness wash over him and his arm hurt like hell. Harry gritted his teeth and bit back the pain.

He looked up to see Luna and Katie crouching over him, concerned.

"Did I hurt you?" asked Luna worriedly, her eyes perfectly focused and her tone not at all distant. It reminded Harry of back in the Ministry when she had proved that, despite her bizarre manner, she could be counted in times of need. When the pressure was on, Luna was perfectly capable of focussing.

"Yeah," said Harry. There was no point in denying it as he was clearly in pain. "I hurt my arm last week and it hasn't healed yet. The spell hit it."

"I'm sorry," said Luna, her tone sympathetic and mellow.

"It's okay," said Harry reassuring her. "I should have protected it myself. I think I'd better stand sideways-on next time."

Harry shook his head as the disorientation faded. _Bugger_... his headache was back. He rubbed his forehead for a second with his hands, before looking up. "Right, where were we?"

Katie offered a hand, which Harry accepted. She was surprisingly strong as she helped pull him back up to his feet.

"Are you sure you're okay to carry on?" asked Katie, for the first time looked concerned rather than hostile.

"I'm fine, Katie," he said calmly. "It's just an old injury that's resurfaced." He did however raise his free hand to rub his forehead.

"Not Malfoy's curse?" asked Katie. Harry was mildly impressed that she made the jump.

"Don't think so," said Harry casually, not wanting to alarm her. "That wore off."

"What was it?"

"No idea," he said. "Something nasty. Anyway, that's gone."

"And your head?"

"I think I've just got the flu or something. I'll be fine," Harry insisted.

Katie hesitated and then nodded, much to Harry's relief. "Okay, just be careful with that arm," she said. "Don't hurt yourself. We don't want Umbridge finding mysterious injuries on members. Have you been to see Pomfrey about it?"

"No," said Harry. "It was just a burn from Potions that hasn't healed yet. Professor Slughorn gave me some stuff for it." Katie seemed satisfied and took a step backwards to give him room.

"Injury aside," said Harry to Luna, "the good news is that you nearly did it."

"Nearly," she announced quite proudly. She glanced at Katie who gave her an encouraging nod.

"Now it's your turn, Harry," Katie said, her tone expectant. She briefly reminded Harry of McGonagall.

Harry took a deep breath as if he was nervous. In truth, he was. He had never really attempted to _not_ do a spell before, especially one that he had used so often it was almost second nature.

He stood a few feet back from Luna, ever aware that Katie was watching his every move, scrutinising his every action. Harry readied himself. Holding his still painful arm close to his body, he stood sideways-on to Luna, his wand aimed at her chest. He held it loosely, trying to minimise the contact with it.

He tried to let his mind wander, but all the time it seemed to flow back to Katie who stood motionless, watching, waiting. Her blue eyes scanned his entire body, but he couldn't tell what she was looking for. He raised his wand, and trying to concentrate on something neutral, swished it clumsily.

"_Stupefy."_

A plume of orange sparks fizzled out of his wand like a fountain. It looked like a firework, rather than a crisp beam of light and never even reached Luna. Harry felt like grinning – he had managed to dull the spell down. It hadn't been a proper stunner at all, and it hadn't even been the full scarlet colour. He had been worried he might hurt Luna or get himself noticed, but he had managed it. He breathed a sigh of relief.

Katie unfolded her arms and stepped closer. "You _can_ do the spell," she said clearly. She stepped up behind Harry, gently placing her hand over his wrist, adjusting his grip on the wand. "Hold your wand firmly for a start. Now concentrate on the target - focus. Once more, with feeling!"

Harry was both impressed and annoyed that she had seen through his mistake, but managed to smile and keep up his pretence as he adjusted his position. She took a step back and stood there expectantly. Now he was in trouble, as she had corrected him. He would have to do it properly or risk his membership in the group, eliciting Katie's suspicions all over again.

He took a deep breath, _"Stupefy!"_

A beam of red light shot out of his wand, but it was not what he had expected. It was thin and translucent, barely stronger than a red torch let alone a spell. He light connected with Luna's stomach causing her to step back a pace, but as far as he could see had no further discernable effect. She looked just as dreamy as ever.

_What the hell_, thought Harry. He managed to keep the concern off his face. He had been trying that time. Not trying his best, granted, but that spell should not have failed. What had gone wrong?

"I-I nearly did it," he said, recovering quickly for Katie's benefit. "Once more. Ready Luna?"

She braced again and Harry aimed his wand. This time he was going to get it right.

"_Stupefy!"_

The red light again shot towards Luna, but once again it was pale, weak, and did little more than make her stagger back a pace or two. Harry looked around, was someone jinxing him like Fred and George had done to Zacharias Smith? No, there was no one. What was wrong with him? He had been able to do this spell since he was in his fourth year. His head was throbbing again now, which made Harry feel worse and really angry. This wasn't right.

"You're nearly there," said Katie, nodding, but once again, she was not smiling. She raised an eyebrow, but Harry could tell that she was suspicious. She had dropped the distrustful stare in concern for his arm, but now it was back in place. What had he done that had made her hostile again? She didn't say anything else but turned and moved on to the next group, leaving Harry wondering what he had done wrong.

Harry turned back to Luna. "That was really good, Harry," she said sounding impressed.

"Look, Luna," said Harry, deciding not to delay any more. If Katie was suspicious his time at the RA may be limited – he needed to move. "I meant to ask you: I was wondering if you could do me a favour."

"That depends on what you need," she said matter-of-factly.

"I need an old copy of the Quibbler," he replied keeping his voice low. "June, 1989."

"Father keeps a copy of every issue," she replied serenely as if it were a common request. "I could have him print you one off. Why do you need it?"

The very question he was hoping she wouldn't ask.

"Err," Harry stammered before recovering his cool. "It has an interview in it that I'm interested in."

Her eyes lit up. "Oh? Which one?"

Again Harry hesitated. He had no idea what was in that issue. "It's a little embarrassing," he replied meekly, attempting to avoid an answer. Luna on the other hand seemed to understand, which was more than Harry did.

"Oh,_ that_ one," she said, smiling slightly. "It's nothing to be ashamed of," she assured him. "I'll ask father to send one as soon as possibly. Now, is it my turn to practice?"

XXXXXX

Shadows were dancing over the walls of the office courtesy of the serpent lamp on the desk. The flame was being blown by the light draft coming in from the open window. At the desk in the centre of the room, the owner was pouring over some files. There was a pile to his right and another was lying open in the centre of the desk with a photo of a woman atop several sheets of parchment. In big red letters across the top of the page were inscribed the words Ministry of Magic – Restricted. This didn't seem to bother the man who sat calmly reading the notes on the woman in question and sipping a cup of lemon tea.

Tom Riddle checked his watch and was surprised to see that it was quarter past midnight. He sat upright, wiping the fatigue from his eyes and stretching. He closed the file he had been reading and put it back in his in-tray. Rising awkwardly to his feet, his back protested from having been bent over for the last few hours. After closing the window to the cold night air, the Headmaster crossed the room and headed back towards his living quarters.

_Knock! Knock!_

Riddle checked his watch and then sighing to himself, called aloud "Come."

The door opened and a rather tired looked Poppy Pomfrey stepped into the office.

"Ah, Poppy," said Tom, courteously. "What brings you to my office in the middle of the night?"

It was as she stepped into the light that Tom realised that she looked flustered. Her hair was a mess, but it was no bed-hair for she wore her uniform, not her bed-clothes. She still wore makeup and had clips in her hair, albeit they had slipped. No...she had not been asleep, but had been working. What had shaken her so?

"Well, headmaster," Poppy began, sliding uninvited into a chair in front of the desk. Normally she was courteous and waited for invitations to sit down, but tonight she seemed very much on edge. "I really don't know where to begin," she said quickly.

He had seen her keep her calm during all sorts of situations, but something was worrying her. It wasn't urgent enough to fire-call so there wasn't a dying student or anything that severe. What has scared the nurse so much that it could not wait until the morning?

"I always find it helpful to start at the beginning," said Riddle, moving behind the desk and taking his own seat. "Perhaps some coffee?"

She nodded gratefully. Tom summoned a House Elf who returned seconds later with piping hot pot of coffee and two mugs. He poured Poppy a cup and sank once more into his own chair, ignoring the protests from his sore back.

After having taken a few sips, Madam Pomfrey was ready to speak.

"Do you recall when we gave Harry Potter his physical?" she asked unexpectedly.

Tom did remember, and at the mention of the name his tiredness left him. If she could answer some of the questions surrounding the enigma that was Harry Potter this conversation would not be a waste of time. He grimaced as he realised that this was to be another sleepless night thanks to the boy.

Poppy continued without waiting for a response. "Well, I compared his DNA against a sample we had from before his disappearance – you recall he got stung by Pomona's Viper Vines last November – well I did a call-back session with Potter just before he disappeared to see if all the venom was gone."

"Yes, Poppy," said Riddle, "you told me about that. The DNA matched, did it not?"

"Yes," said Poppy impatiently. "I mean, no. Err...no, I mean yes."

"Was that a yes or a no?" asked Tom, trying to keep the amusement out of his voice.

Poppy shot him an indignant glare, before speaking again. "Yes, insofar as what I was able to test myself with what I had available. I could only do the basic comparison with the equipment available to me."

Tom hoped she was not just here to ask for more equipment. That however was the least of his concerns. Was she saying that she might have made a mistake? Could it be that Harry wasn't really Harry? Tom's concern must have shown, for Poppy immediately shook her head.

"Rest assured, headmaster…" she began, but Tom interrupted.

"When there are no students around please call me Tom," he said gently. Although he was proud of his position, he felt it was rather odd for grown men and women to address him as Headmaster when not in the presence of those to whom an example should be set. Poppy nodded and took another sip of coffee before continuing.

"Rest assured, Tom, that what I did in January was more than enough to ascertain identity. He is Harry Potter…but there are certain irregularities."

"Sorry," said Tom, at a loss as to the point of this conversation. "I'm not following. I thought DNA was unique. If there are irregularities, does that mean that he may not be Harry Potter?"

"It's not that simple, Tom," said Poppy, shaking her head and laughing softly.

Tom didn't see the funny side, and this was anything but a joke. If a complete stranger could come into the school and get that close to Kathryn...Tom managed to keep his frustration in check and gestured for Poppy to continue. She took another sip of coffee and set the mug down on the desk.

"Because you were so rattled about the boy," said Poppy leaning back in her chair and crossing her legs, "after I had done my own comparison I sent a sample of Potter's blood to a friend of mine at St Mungo's. I know there are laws against that, but in the current climate I believed bending them was not inappropriate. They do not know who it is, so my oath is not broken. Anyhow, I digress. I sent the sample to Crystal Merchant, do you remember her?"

"Quite the Gobstones player," said Riddle, vaguely recalling the girl in question. She and Poppy had been in their fifth year when he had returned to Hogwarts a year after Albus' death.

"I only chose her as she is a friend whom I went to Nightingale's with, and she owed me a favour," explained Poppy. "All I wanted was a second opinion, so imagine my surprise when two days letter I got a call on my fireplace asking me to pop over in the morning. This was a fortnight ago. Now, I am not sure if you are aware of this, but Crystal is currently St. Mungo's senior researcher into genetics, specialising in cancers and mutations. She had analysed Potter's sample with the latest techniques. The results were…very interesting. Both of us have been trying to make sense of the results, but I thought it best to share them with you."

Riddle was now wide awake. "Okay, Poppy," he said. "Tell me, what is troubling you?"

"How much do you know about DNA, Tom?" she asked. He didn't have time to respond before she ploughed on. "Never mind, I will put it simply: DNA strands are the building blocks of every creature on the planet and every person's DNA is unique. The DNA carries the genetic information of the organism. Think of it as a blueprint. For example, one gene gives you blue eyes another brown hair, with me so far?"

Tom nodded, glad that she was taking it slowly.

"Although microscopic," she continued. "The DNA strand is very long in terms of genetics, as it contains a complete blueprint for an organism. All humans will have the vast majority of their DNA sequence in common, as they are of the same species, with just the last bit differentiating person to person, accounting for gender, of course. There are also parts that not only humans have in common, but every organism on the planet."

Tom was tired. His eyelids had begun to droop before Poppy had even arrived, much less started talking. His exhausted mind was having trouble keeping up. Poppy seemed to guess this, and leaned forward to the desk, grabbing a parchment and quill. She drew a single line across the parchment and then divided the line into three sections.

"To make it clearer," she said, "think of the DNA string as this line. The section on the left, here, is the same for every living organism on the planet whether it be a daisy, a gerbil, a hippogriff or yourself. This middle section, here, is the same for every human being, and this section on the right, here, is unique to every individual person. It is this section on the right that makes you Tom Riddle with dark hair and the rest of it. We use the information in this final section when we are DNA fingerprinting. Understand?"

Tom nodded. He had the feeling that she was simplifying to the point of talking to a four-year old, but he didn't comment. He needed it put simply in his current state.

"In the case of Harry Potter, this is where it gets interesting. These last two sections," – she pointed to the middle and right sections, which defined human beings and individuals – "were perfectly matched to how he was before the fire in St Mungo's. He is definitely Harry Potter. However, when we looked again there were certain differences, but not where we would expect. There were differences in the first section, here."

She jabbed the parchment with her finger on the left hand side.

"But, I thought you said that this section was common to every living organism on the planet?" Tom asked, certain he had misinterpreted.

"Exactly," replied Poppy, looking relieved. "Exactly."

"But…"

"It's no use asking, Tom," said Madam Pomfrey shaking her head and then taking another sip of coffee. "I cannot say what it means. I can give you the facts: there are differences in Harry's DNA compared to every other creature on the planet. These anomalies are in uncharted sections of DNA. Since all organisms have these same elements, little research has been done. I cannot say what the functions of these…_rogue_ genes are.

"What are you saying?" asked Riddle. "That he isn't quite human?"

"He's human," said Poppy with certainty. "Or near enough. The differences are not in the part that makes us human, dog, or alligator for example, but in a bit that every single life-form on this planet has in common, and that is magically and scientifically impossible."

"What is he, then?" asked Riddle, his head spinning. He was speaking more to himself than Poppy. The matron shrugged and sipped her coffee. Riddle didn't fully hear her next comment but it sounded like 'damned if I know'. Tom chewed over the conversation one more time in his head, seeing if any pearls of wisdom immerged from the gloom. There was nothing.

"Is it possible that someone did this to him?" he asked. For his part, Tom could not think of any spell that re-wrote DNA. Even Animagus training did not breach the subject. A person's magical core allowed them to take on the form of an animal but their DNA never changed, even in animal form. Transfiguration was the same. The subject may look different depending on the spell, but their DNA never changed. Even…

Tom recalled a time deep in his buried past when he had uncovered a rumour of the Dark Lord's most secret invention. He remembered going to see Horace, asking him about the possibility of tearing his soul asunder. Even that, the darkest magic he knew, would not touch DNA. Tom shivered at the memory, wishing to forget his past. He wished he could have faced his old self and made him see what a monster he had been. _That name,_ he thought, _thank Merlin that name would never be uttered again_. Tom buried his emotions under a thick blanket of Occlumency before turning his attention back to the matron.

"If someone has done this to him," answered Poppy after a short pause, "then they are very, very clever. Let me put this into context: causing mutations in cells is disturbingly common and easy. Using a mobile phone for too long or exposure to radiation can cause mutation – we call it cancer. If someone has a mutated cell inside their body, the body rejects and isolates it. The mutated cells continue to multiply and eventually it forms a tumour. The key point is that the body rejects and isolates the mutation. Potters body is_not_ rejecting these cells, because they are not isolated occurrences. His entire body, every cell, carries this pattern. It is not a cancer, it is his normal genetic code."

"Understand, Tom," she continued in a grave voice. "Crystal is regarded as one of the leaders of her field. Her research is on the forefront of knowledge, yet she and her team are still on the verge of identifying specific genes that may cause cancers and leukaemia. The next step, they hope, is to use magic to turn on or off genes that can cause the disease. However, even in theory this can only be done with human sperm or egg cells, or a very, very small foetus – only a few hundred cells in size – because the exact same change needs to be performed to every cell, and even then there is no guarantee that the host body will accept the change. Potter is sixteen – can you imagine how many trillions of cells there are in his body. To change every single one in an instant, without the body rejecting them and not killing Potter himself…it is completely impossible."

"Poppy," said Tom, carefully, the enormity of her words still playing on his mind. "In your medical opinion, who or what is he?"

"I truly cannot say," replied Poppy. "He breaks every rule of genetics what we know." She paused. "There is a little more to it, though."

"More?" echoed Tom in astonishment. Just when he thought the mystery could not deepen, it seemed it would.

"Crystal has a Muggle cousin, Angela," explained Poppy. "Because she already knows about wizards, we felt that it was not a breach of the Statute of Secrecy to ask her about our results. She is a doctor, doing research in the same field, but from a Muggle perspective. Muggles seem to be slightly more advanced in the area of genetics, so we thought she might be able to help. Angela says that our findings are impossible and that we have to have made a mistake. We haven't, Tom. Potter's DNA is an impossibility by Muggle and magical standards."

"We then decided to look into magical method of mapping blood." She took a sip of coffee, before continuing.

"Currently, no real research is being done on the matter," she said, her tone betraying the frustration she had endured because of it. "After that we dug a little deeper into the Medical Archives at St. Mungo's hoping to uncover a magical means to explain this anomaly. Over the centuries, several cultures have had a go at mapping blood, usually rather painfully, but we couldn't find anything of use. We then had an idea. We made discreet inquiries at the Department of Mysteries. One Unspeakable was rather helpful. It seems the department acquired a book about twenty years ago, one that originated from ancient Greece. Granted, parts of this book are obviously suspect as it allegedly deals with alternate realities and parallel worlds."

"Fanciful," said Riddle, raising a doubtful eye.

"Indeed," said Poppy, laughing at the concept. "What's even more laughable is that apparently the Ministry tried to recreate… whatever it was, but failed. Anyhow, the point is that these Greeks, these something-something-Gnosis I think they are called, did quite a lot of work into mapping blood. It is the earliest form of DNA research on record. It also apparently addresses the areas we all have in common in an attempt to answer the question 'what is life?'. I believe this book may hold some of the answers to what is going on with the boy."

"Would it be possible to get hold of this book?" asked Riddle, leaning forward, his eyes sparkling. Although from a suspect source and highly dated, anything that could shed light on Harry Potter was definitely worth a read.

"The Unspeakables only translated the parts they needed for their little experiment twenty years ago," explained Pomfrey. "I have asked that they translate the parts we need, and send over the transcripts."

"And they have agreed?" asked Riddle, surprised. Knowing Cornelius, the answer was probably no.

"Only because they thought that the request was coming from St. Mungo's, not here," said Pomfrey with a sly smile. "If we had used your name, I doubt we would have gotten it. Crystal made up a story about researching into treating Leukaemia and they agreed to help."

Riddle could have kissed her. Her initiative was shining through and she had done so much of the work for him.

"How long…"

"Two weeks I was quoted," said Pomfrey, stifling a yawn. "Crystal just called me an hour ago to tell me it will be a fortnight." She yawned again. "Sorry, I have spent the last day or so at St. Mungo's and then the Ministry, going over and over this little puzzle. It feels like I haven't slept in ages."

"And I am most grateful that you have done all this," Riddle told her, genuinely meaning it. It was the best news he had heard for some time. She smiled at him over her mug which she held in both hands, warming her palms.

"Tom," said Poppy after a pause. "What shall we do about Harry Potter in the meantime?"

Tom hesitated. He was reluctant to alienate Harry further. He seemed to be calmer now and hadn't done anything out of the ordinary for weeks. There had literally been no progress on the Potter front since the medical exam. He had now apparently joined Kathryn's resistance group, so he was fitting in once more. From Harry's point of view, things were looking up. From Tom's viewpoint this was not so good. For a start, Tom knew the boy was hiding something. Clearly there was more to him than they knew at the moment. Secondly, he did not wish for Harry to be alone with Kathryn. He did not need her being corrupted – her mental state was paramount at this point in time, especially since attempts at Occlumency had failed. Was he right to continue to pursue Harry, despite him not having done anything unusual since he arrived? Tom just could not shake the feeling that he was dangerous. The weapons, the Occlumency…something was amiss.

"This isn't dangerous or contagious, is it?" asked Riddle finally.

The matron shook her head.

"In that case I see no need to quarantine or withdraw him from the student population, at least until we have seen this transcript."

"I still have a sample of his blood, so Crystal and I can run more tests and try to isolate exactly which genes are amiss," Poppy said, yawning again more forcefully. "But that's after I have had some sleep…and mopped up after the Quidditch match…and dispensed hangover cure for the after-party…and probably another potion for certain girls...Merlin, by that time the damned manuscript will have arrived and there'll be no point."

"Thank you, Poppy," said Riddle, smiling at her rant. "I look forward to seeing this translation – I feel it may answer many questions. For now, we shall leave Harry, but rest assured I will keep an eye on him."

She nodded and yawned. "I'd better head off," she said. "With all my time at St. Mungo's, I haven't slept in nearly thirty hours."

"Then I bid you good night," said Riddle, removing the remains of the coffee tray with his wand. "Get some sleep, Poppy. We need you fighting fit for the Quidditch game this weekend. There's always one."

She nodded. "With Slytherin playing, there are usually seven," she muttered. Tom raised his eyebrows in mock horror. He saw a tired smile creep across the matron's face as she left.

That had been most enlightening, he thought as he moved into his living quarters through the side door. Harry was fundamentally different from everything else on the planet. He was hardly an alien though, and it was definitely Harry Potter and not an impostor. This was his DNA, not his magic or anything magical. DNA didn't change. Even a transformation like Grindelwald's would not change his DNA, since it was his soul and magic that had most likely been torn in two, in Tom's theory. In truth, he didn't know what to make of this latest development. He would have to wait for the translation to come through, he supposed. However, if the book was as fanciful as Poppy implied then it had to be taken with a pinch of salt.

Tom changed into his pyjamas and then climbed into bed. Just as his eyes were closing, a crazy thought popped into his head.

_What if it is true?_ he thought sleepily. _What if Harry is different because he's not from this world? What if those Greeks really had succeeded?_

XXXXXX

On Friday, the RA held another meeting. Katie arrived early to set up and prepare. It had been the day from hell – no, correction...it had been the week from hell. Umbridge had been on the warpath, determined to catch the RA. Katie knew that Umbridge knew, and she knew that Umbridge knew that she knew, but knew better than to make a point of it. Part of Katie wished she could show the RA off as her crowning achievement. She looked forward to the day when Riddle kicked Umbridge out and took the school back. On that day, as the door hit Umbridge on the arse on the way out, Katie would break the news to her that, despite her best attempts to beat it out of them, they had resisted right under her nose. The horrible woman had been sent here to prevent Riddle forming an army to take on Fudge, but all she had done was to make damn sure that one was created.

_You failed, bitch,_ she thought viciously.

"Hello."

Katie jumped out of her skin as the voice sounded in her ear. She turned around, her wand raised, a curse on her lips.

"_STUPEF…"_

The boy quickly grabbed her wrist, forcing it away from him, just as she had seen him do to Malfoy.

"Easy, tiger," said Harry Potter, letting go of her wrist.

"Damn it, Harry," she said angrily, putting her wand away. "Why did you sneak up on me?"

"I didn't mean to," he apologised, his calm face breaking into a lop-sided grin. "I just came in a bit early to practice, and you were there. You seemed deep in thought. Didn't want to disturb, but then I thought you'd jump if I didn't let you know I was here, so I said hello and you jumped anyway…"

"Harry," she cut him off. "You're rambling."

"Oh, right," he said in a sheepish voice.

Katie looked him up and down critically. He appeared a little shaky in all honesty and a bit pale as he removed his robes, leaving just a shirt and trousers. He bundled his robes and tie together, putting them in a pile against the wall. Next, he removed his wand and tucked it up his sleeve. Katie made a mental note that he kept it up there. She wasn't sure why she thought that it was significant or foresaw a time when she would come up against him and such information would be useful, but something about the movement made her take note of it. The action also proved another point; Harry had become more defensive since his return. The old Harry wouldn't have kept his wand up his sleeve, or act so paranoid all the time. Except it wasn't paranoia, exactly. It was more…fieldcraft perhaps? Then again where would he have learned fieldcraft?

As he drew himself back up to his full height, Katie looked him up and down once more. Neville's words came back to her from when he had argued Harry's case for joining the RA. Now that she looked at him, were there really signs of danger all over him?

Harry pulled his collar away from his neck and shook it lightly to let air in. He did seem as if he was hot and if he had the flu as he had said, she could understand that. He relocated his wand to his belt loops and then began to roll up his sleeves. She could see the muscles and tendons moving beneath his skin as he worked. The old Harry was slightly chubby, but he seemed to have shed those extra pounds. His face was thinner now, but his arms had filled out. This alone wasn't enough to make her suspicious. People lose weight and get haircuts all the time. As she watched him, there was only one thing that she could honestly put her hand on her heart and say was worryingly different about him, and that was his eyes. Once again she was drawn inexplicably to those deep emerald eyes, the unblinking stare. They had sparkled with great sadness as he had told her of his friend, and then had glinted with danger as he had faced Malfoy on his first days back. In some ways they were so telling, in others so mysterious.

Suddenly he turned, and Katie was once again caught in his gaze. Sky blue met sea green. This time, there was amusement in his eyes. Katie looked away quickly, suddenly afraid to face him. Harry seemed not to notice.

"Dare I ask how your day's been?" asked Harry matter-of-factly, attempting to make conversation.

His manner was once again courteous, but cool. His calm was absolute, his eyes attentive behind those glasses. He had been embarrassed, shifty and waffling a few seconds ago, but now his attitude had changed completely. His unsettling detached demeanour had returned. Funny, he seemed to switch between the two like Jekyll and Hyde. Did that suggest that it was all an act? And if it was an act, which was the real Harry Potter? Coupled with an observation she had made recently, it doubled her suspicions.

Last time, he had struggled with a Stunner. Well, not struggled, but had taken a few goes to get it right, making elementary mistakes like holding the wand wrong and such. However, what made her wary was that he had managed the spell perfectly in his little fight with Malfoy earlier. He had missed, but there was nothing wrong with the spell itself. It was bright scarlet and powerful, and he had even been cursed at the time yet still managed to do it. After that, he failed to do it in a safe environment. He was clearly hiding his ability. Why? To what end?

_Damn it, Neville, he should never have been invited_, she thought in frustration.

Harry must have seen her grimace for he spoke again. "That good, eh?"

"Same old," said Katie, guarding her answer carefully, not wanting to give more information that she could help. "I've descended into the seventh circle of hell, thank you very much," she replied, making light of what was definitely pressing on her mind. "How about you?"

"Sick as a parrot," said Harry easily. "But soldiering on."

Katie had to admit he didn't look well. "We could all do with a holiday," she said making small talk. "But we do what we can, I suppose."

"And this is your way of relaxing," said Harry, with a small smile. "Tell me, is it really the desire to give two fingers to Umbridge, or is it that you like teaching? Or maybe you just want others to see you as you are – just a normal girl who's had bad things happen to her, yet survived them."

"What?" asked Katie, completely unprepared for such an insightful question.

"What makes you do this?" elaborated Harry, gesturing around. "I mean, I would have thought that someone in your position would want to keep their head down, not make themselves any more significant."

"I didn't want to at first," conceded Katie, amazed at his powers of perception. "But it's kind of grown on me."

"Ah, you like the feeling of being needed," concluded Harry, nodding.

"Partly," Katie said uncomfortably, realising that it sounded arrogant. "It's a combination of feeling like I am part of something, and partly the teaching. It's odd, but I've found that I actually like teaching. When the little light goes on and someone finally gets it, it's quite a nice feeling. Can you understand that?"

"More or less," he said giving nothing away. "And if it helps us to survive…well, it has to be worth it." His eyes were impassive but something told her he did understand.

"Exactly," agreed Katie. "Every little bit helps."

"And the fact that we are effectively giving two fingers to Umbridge has nothing to do with it," he said in mock seriousness then grinned roguishly. It made his face seem younger, less careworn, with his green eyes twinkling mischievously.

Katie smiled for what seemed like the first time in ages.

"Naturally," she said, pulling her sweetest, most innocent expression and fluttering her eyelashes provocatively.

"Still, you'd be the person to ask about Defence," said Harry, serious once more. He turned away looking around the room instead of at her, as if he was making an effort not to make her feel uncomfortable. "First hand experience and all that. After what you've seen and done…it's both fantastic and horrific at the same time. Although it makes for a wonderful story, to actually live it is different, I suppose. Being completely alone must be a nightmare. Glad it's you and not me."

Katie watched him, trying to give nothing away. Her face was set and her guard was up. Once again the boy was taking words out of her heart, as he had done the last time they had spoken. Katie was too stunned to respond.

"Out of curiosity," he continued, "and you don't have to answer, but do you know why?"

Katie blinked, confused. "Why what?"

He turned back around to face her, to look her in the eye, and what she saw was both frightening and fascinating.

"Why of all the people on God's green earth was it you who was chosen to carry the burden of that scar?"

Katie didn't move a muscle. A chill ran down her spine. The room seemed suddenly very close around them and utterly still. She had asked the question once before and Riddle had refused to answer. It was a question she had asked herself hundreds of times. Why her? Of the 6 billion people on the planet, why her?

"Guess not," said Harry, reading her reaction in that uncanny way of his that Katie found so disconcerting. "But take my advice: ask Riddle."

Suddenly the door burst opened and in came a stream of Gryffindors. Katie was still staring at Harry, his words having crushed her lungs of all air. His voice was echoing around inside her mind, blocking out everything else.

_Why?_

As someone shouted a greeting Katie turned to look at the speaker, dragging her eyes away from Harry's. When she looked back, he was already halfway across the room. As everyone removed excess clothing and dumped their bags against the wall where Harry had left his bundle, Katie noticed that Luna Lovegood had wandered over and was talking quietly to him. After a brief discussion, she handed him a large brown envelope. Harry thanked her and put it down underneath the bundle of his cloak and tie.

_What is in that envelope, _wondered Katie.

She shook her head. Something was up with him, she could feel it. Was Luna in on it with him? No, surely not.

Katie was drawn out of her thoughts as someone asked what was happening today. Sighing, she shook herself awake and began the lesson. Right... plans for the RA. They would refresh themselves on Stunners and then move on. Tonight she would throw the Impediment Jinx, Incarcero Charm and the Full-Body Bind into the mix as well, if there was time. If they could get to grips with them all in the next week, that should give the RA quite an offensive arsenal, or at least the beginnings of one.

They practiced for ten minutes with Stunners before Katie introduced the Impediment Jinx. After half an hour's practice on that, Katie told everyone to take 5 and to have a drink. During the quick break, Katie noticed Harry sit down against a wall, take the envelope Luna had provided, and open it. Katie held her breath, her wand at the ready. However, when Harry tipped the envelope all that fell out was a copy of the Quibbler, Luna's father's rag of a newspaper. Katie relaxed, sighing with relief and pocketing her wand. It was nothing dangerous.

Harry regarded the magazine for a second before putting it back in the envelope and put it with his cloak. As he stood up, there was a small smile on his face.

XXXXXX

Back on his bed, Harry lay down on his back and stared at the ceiling. His head was pounding and he felt sick. The room around him seemed to be spinning. With difficulty he moved to the window and opened it, gasping in deep lung-fulls of icy air, which seemed to clear his head a little and make him feel a tad better.

"What is wrong with me?" he wondered aloud. Was it a last effect of Malfoy's curse? Harry didn't know, but what he did know was that he had been feeling ill for three days now, ever since that curse had hit him. It wasn't getting better. Tomorrow he might have to swallow his pride and go to Pomfrey.

Suddenly his stomach decided that it had had enough. He felt it clamp tight and his dinner shoot up his throat as he retched. Harry's head flew forward as he hurled, propelling a stream of hot vomit out of the window into the freezing night. He broke into a cold sweat as his dinner disappeared into the darkness below the window.

Spitting out whatever was in his mouth, he wiped his face with his jumper then walked quickly into the Gryffindor Tower toilets and crossed to the sink. Cleaning his teeth helped to get rid of the acidic taste, but he still felt dreadful.

That was it, no more excuses. Tomorrow he was going to Pomfrey. This was getting ridiculous. Ever since Malfoy's curse had burned his insides, he was constantly feeling hot. Having finished cleaning his teeth, he raised a hand to his forehead. He had a fever, as well as a headache and obvious sickness. He couldn't find a way home if he was suffering from the flu – he had to sort this out before he could move any further. A few potions from Pomfrey and he would be right as rain.

Heading back to his bed, Harry pulled out the envelope Luna had given him. Horrible as he felt, it wouldn't hurt to have a quick look. Harry removed the copy of the Quibbler from the envelope carefully. On the cover was a large picture of a young wizard with blond floppy hair. Harry read the teaser of the article and Luna's words came back to haunt him.

"_Oh,__that__ interview," _she had said, a smug smile on her lips_. "It's nothing to be ashamed of..."_

Harry grimaced.

"Ousted for being gay, the Quibbler investigates homophobia amongst the Aurors…"

Now Luna thought he was gay. _Great,_ he thought sarcastically.

Harry shook his head. It didn't matter – he would be gone soon anyway. Harry opened the Quibbler and pulled the diary out from under his pillow. He flicked to the marked page in the diary and looked for the red ink. Page 67.

Flipping open the Quibbler, he skimmed through to page 67. His jaw dropped and a shiver ran down his spine. The title on the left page read "War of the Worlds", but that wasn't what caught Harry's attention. The page on the right was covered in a single huge picture, inside which a terribly familiar looking blond wizard was waving back at him. Harry cringed remembering the last time he had met the wizard. He gripped the page with sweaty hands as he began to read.

"_Travel between worlds is a popular concept amongst Muggle fiction and may even be supported by their theoretical physics, but is it really possible? The very concept has long attracted a certain breed of wizard, the earliest references to such magic beginning in ancient Greece, but stories pop up all throughout history. Why this fascination? Is it a desire to answer the great question of whether or not we are alone in the universe? For many it is a personal quest, but for one man it is all business. Myth tells us that such inter-dimensional travel was achieved in ancient times, but the secret has since been lost. This month with exclusive coverage from the Quibbler, Gilderoy Lockhart goes in pursuit of another universe."_

Harry paused, the name ringing in his mind and the picture waving stupidly back at him. The award winning smile was constantly being flashed as a very young Lockhart strutted back and forth across the cover. Harry on the other hand sat perfectly still, his mind lost in memory. He remembered the tunnel in which Lockhart, the coward and fraud, had tried to take his memory. He remembered encountering him again years later in St. Mungo's.

This raised another problem: if the man had lost his memory, would he even be able to recall what Harry needed to know?

Harry was aware that Lockhart would not have done it himself, but he would have found the wizard in question and Obliviated him or her. That meant that somewhere out there was a person who knew all about the Node. Harry just needed to find that person and reverse the memory charm. Simple? Not really, he didn't know where to start, or even how to reverse a memory charm.

Well, logically the first step would be to find Lockhart and to see what kind of state he was in. Was there a way of bringing the information out of him? Harry had no idea, but he did know that he needed to get to St. Mungo's to at least make sure Lockhart was there. Today was Friday, so Harry had time to go tomorrow. He could slip out of the castle easily enough, and getting to the hospital should be simple. Once he got there he wasn't sure what he would do, but he still had to try. He would get some potions from Pomfrey in the morning, cure his head, and then pop over mid-morning.

He was slightly further on than he had been yesterday, and that thought brought a smile to his lips.

By tomorrow, at worst, he would have eliminated a useless line of inquiry and, at best, he would have found the way home. Yawning loudly, Harry decided that he'd had enough for tonight. He slid the Quibbler and the diary under his pillow before rolling over and closing his eyes.

_Hopefully, tomorrow I will be one step closer to home._

…

_Harry!_

_Har-ry!_

"HARRY!"

Harry's eyes flew open. It felt like he had only just closed them, but as he looked at the clock it was already 0825. Shaking his head, he reached for his false-glasses. His mouth was dry, he felt exhausted, his head was pounding, but at least he didn't feel like throwing up. His limbs felt like they were made of lead, though, and his insides as if they were on fire.

He yawned, and as he did his head gave another powerful throb. Groaning, he sat up.

Looking up he saw Seamus and Dean standing over him, his curtains drawn and light pouring in.

"Eh?" grunted Harry, shaking the sleepiness from his mind.

"It's the first of February," announced Dean, grinning broadly.

"Wow," said Harry nonplussed, sitting up. Aside from the fact that he had been here a month, there was nothing special about today, was there? "Pinch punch first of the month. What's so special about today?"

"Slytherin vs. Ravenclaw," announced Seamus. "Get something blue on, grab breakfast, and then to the stadium, Harry."

"Riiight," said Harry, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He wondered why Quidditch really didn't interest him these days.

"It doesn't really matter which one wins," said Dean. "As long as neither of them score more than three hundred points."

"Which is pretty unlikely," said Seamus, shrugging. "Both sets of Chasers are apparently on form at the moment."

As Harry pulled on some trousers and a blue t-shirt, Seamus spotted the corner of the Quibbler poking out from under the pillow and immediately made a move for it.

"What've we got here," asked Dean loudly, as Seamus pulled it out. "A dirty magazine?"

Harry froze in horror, remembering what was on the cover.

"Nah," said Seamus. "Just the Quibbler. It's the…oh…something we should know Harry?"

Harry glared at him as he began to read aloud.

"Eamon Barrister, formerly of the Aurors, tells all about the oppression suffered by homosexuals in the Ministry of Magic's finest…" Harry made a grab for it, but Seamus was too quick. "1989, specially ordered. Well this is a turnout for the books."

"For your information," said Harry coldly, "that is not the article that interests me."

"It's nothing to be ashamed of," said Dean, unable to hold in his laughter. He caught Seamus' glance and they both howled.

Harry was becoming impatient. This sleepiness had left him, but his tiredness was making him ratty. He picked up his wand from the table beside him and turned to face Seamus.

"I'm going to ask once more nicely," said Harry, his tone icy and firm. "Give it back."

Settling down, Dean and Seamus exchanged a glance before conceding. Seamus passed him back the magazine which Harry threw into his trunk, slamming the lid in frustration. He was glad he hadn't had to show his power by getting it back by force. While emotional Harry Potter would have been quite happy to hex the hell out of the pair of them, the methodical Dark Knight knew he had to keep a low profile and kept his emotions in check.

"We'll see you downstairs," said Seamus heading towards the door. As the boys went downstairs, Harry heard Seamus pipe up, "They're shite, they're scum, they take it up the bum. Sly-ther-in! Sly-ther-in!"

Harry shook his head in a grimace and then pulled on a cloak, just as his head gave another hard throb. Before he did anything else, he was off to the Hospital Wing.

Wearing jeans, a woolly jumper over his blue t-shirt, a blue scarf, and a plain black cloak without the Hogwarts insignia, as well as his false glasses and hastily re-applied make-up to mask his scar, Harry headed up to the lair of Madam Pomfrey. He headed straight into the hospital wing and crossed the polished floor, heading for the office, nodding to a Hufflepuff boy he recognised who occupied a bed to his left as he passed. The student had what looked like a bite mark on his cheek that had turned violent green.

As Harry arrived at the door he knocked. There was a pause and then Madam Pomfrey emerged, looking mildly surprised and rather tired. For a second Harry thought he saw fear in her eyes, but it was gone a second later.

"Can I help you, Potter?" she asked briskly.

"Yeah," said Harry. "For the last couple of days I've had this constant headache."

"Please tell me that this is not alcohol induced," she said, eying him suspiciously.

Harry gave her an 'oh, please' look. "It isn't," he reassured her. "I just feel awful. It's probably the flu, but have you got something to clear my head?"

She apprised him for a second before speaking.

"Sit up on one of the beds," she said, gesturing around the room. She turned and disappeared into her office.

As Harry hopped up onto the nearest bed, she emerged again carrying a small bag which she placed next to him on the bed. She opened it and removed a small wad of cotton wool, which she held in forceps. Harry watched as she dipped it into a pinkish paste that the matron produced from the bag, coating the cotton wool liberally in the goo. That done, she held the wad up to his mouth.

Harry recoiled, as the paste smelt like paint-thinner.

"Breathe out, please," she said formally.

Harry hesitated for a second before leaning forward and breathing out the pink paste. When his lungs were empty, he leaned back and Madam Pomfrey inspected the cotton wool expectantly.

"Well, it isn't blue," she said, sounding surprised. She vanished the wool with a flick of her wand and returned the forceps to her bag along with the pot of pink paste.

"What does that mean?" he asked.

"There was no alcohol on your breath," she replied, her tone businesslike.

"I did tell you," said Harry impatiently. But as his anger grew his blood pressure increased, and his head pounded harder. He took a breath to calm himself.

Pomfrey then raised her wand to Harry's head and began to mutter various spells. Harry sat still as she moved the wand around his head, muttering to herself the entire time. Her wand emitted various coloured lights several times, and as she continued her brow furrowed in thought.

"Interesting," she said after nearly a minute of spellwork.

"What?" asked Harry, hopeful of a cure.

"No viruses as far as I can see," she said, looking pensive. "It doesn't appear to be the flu, as there are no influenza microbes in your system, but you are symptomatic. Tell me, what other symptoms have you had? Sickness?"

"Not been sick, but felt it," said Harry, unwilling to make it sound bad, as he had no desire to spend a month in bed. He paused for a second but then decided that pride would be his downfall. He needed to recover quickly and get home so he decided to come clean. "Correction, I was sick last night."

"Hmm," said Pomfrey, looking thoughtful. "Cold shivers? Fever?"

"Not really," said Harry. "Bit of a temperature though."

Pomfrey raised the back of her hand and pressed it to his forehead.

"You are hot," she said pensively.

Harry resisted the urge to say 'why thank you, you aren't bad looking yourself' as this wasn't the time for jokes.

"Merlin, you're burning up." She raised her wand to his head again and he saw a small glow of light in his peripheral vision.

"Forty-one point four?" she echoed, her voice raised in upward inflection. "You're hyperthermic, but not symptomatic of hyperthermia."

"I thought hyperthermia was extreme cold," said Harry confused.

"_Hypothermia_ is cold," she said. "With an 'o', Potter. _Hyperthermia_, spelt with 'er', is extreme heat. Your body should be thirty-six point nine degrees Celsius, in what we call homeostasis."

"So what's a few degrees?" asked Harry, shrugging. "I've heard my Aunt say Dudley had a temperature of one hundred and two."

"Fahrenheit," said Madam Pomfrey impatiently. "Yours would be one hundred and seven degrees on that scale."

"Oh," said Harry feeling stupid. He felt himself blush, which only served to increase his headache.

"The point is that your body is outside its comfort zone," said Pomfrey, pacing back and forward in front of him. "If you were hyperthermic – that is to say, if you had heatstroke – I would expect you to be dehydrated, erratic, tired, disorientated, weak and incoherent. However, you seem fine. You are not confused, irrational or disorientated, you aren't staggering or weak, your blood sugar level is fine and even the level of water in your body is normal. It's strange. Normally, anything over forty Celsius, is considered to be life threatening."

"Perhaps I just have a high tolerance?" suggested Harry.

"Unlikely," said Pomfrey at length. She paused again deep in thought.

Harry knew that this was the time to offer a potential explanation. There was no use suffering in silence – he needed to get fit quickly.

"Could someone have done this to me?"

"How do you mean?"

Harry hesitated, wondering how much to tell. She would undoubtedly inform Riddle of his condition. It was not that he wanted to protect Malfoy, it was more that he didn't want Riddle snooping around or taking any more interest in him than necessary.

"I think I was cursed a few days ago," he replied. "Just before it started."

"Cursed? Who did it? What curse?" she asked instantly, summoning a quill and parchment.

"I don't know," he replied, aware that she was writing down everything he said. "I didn't see."

He did not want an investigation launched in case it revealed more about him that he wanted to.

"It just made my insides burn," he said. "Made me feel like my organs were on fire, like chillies in my eyes but all over my torso."

"Okay," said Pomfrey, writing rapidly on the parchment. "Who was it?"

"I told you I don't know," said Harry. "Besides, what does it matter? It's over now."

"My dear boy, it is clearly not over," insisted Pomfrey, sounding angry for the first time. "A spell that burns you, and now you have heat stroke? Surely you can see the link? We need to know who did this curse so we can find out what it is and what it has done to you."

Harry began to panic slightly.

"But it's gone now," he argued. "Maybe it just lowered my immune system, allowing this cold or whatever to get in."

"Maybe," she replied doubtfully, "but we still need to know what it was just in case. There are many pain curses in this world, Potter, and none of them are pleasant. Who knows what internal damage you may have. Whatever this is could kill you."

She had a point, except he didn't think Malfoy would have gone so far as that in front of witnesses. "No one is going to commit murder in Hogwarts," he replied.

"Unless they didn't know the full effect of the curse," she shot back instantly. "It's happened before."

"Look, I don't know alright," he replied, deciding to end the argument here. "They came from behind. Could have been anyone, most likely a Slytherin. You can tell Riddle he can start by investigating his old House. He may not find the one who did it but I'm sure his time won't be wasted. He's likely to turn up something with that lot."

Pomfrey paused, looking at him with narrowed eyes. Harry was sure she suspected he was lying, but she had no proof.

"Very well, Potter, be like that," she said. "If you end up back here in a week with this having worsened, don't blame me! I will give you something to treat the symptoms, but if it doesn't clear up in the next two days you_ must_ come back to see me, do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal," agreed Harry, grateful that he might get something to finally relieve his head.

"I'm dead serious, Potter," she said a little more firmly. "I would expect someone with your temperature to be near death. If things deteriorate we need to get you into stasis as soon as possible, understand?"

Harry gulped, suddenly not so confident. He had no desire to face the reaper this soon; he had so much yet to do. It was amazing how much the threat of death made people see sense and their own humility, and he was no exception. Harry nodded obediently and promised her he would come back if it got worse.

"Right," she said, summoning two bottles from inside her office. One was a liquid, and one contained what Harry initially thought were slugs. She held out the liquid to him and a small cup no bigger than a shot-glass with measuring marks up the side.

"This will take your temperature down," she assured him. "Take two full measures when you wake up and before bed."

She then held out the bottle containing what Harry had thought were slugs but now saw were large pills.

"Take one of these with every meal. That should sort your head out. Chew one for a full minute and then swallow. And for goodness sake, take it easy for a few days. We don't need you dying on us again."

Harry removed the top of the potion bottle gingerly and sniffed it. It smelt like vinegar. He poured a measure from the brown bottle into the clear measuring-cup. The liquid was thin and a deep red colour that looked like the medicine Aunt Petunia had given Dudley for his ear infection when he was eight. Harry took a deep breath and swallowed it.

It tasted like salad dressing. He had embarrassingly scrunched up his face as he had drunk it, and even with his eyes closed he could almost sense Madam Pomfrey smirking at him in satisfaction. He opened his eyes to find that he was right. He quickly took a second cup and then put a pill into his mouth with the same confidence.

"ERG!"

That had been a mistake. The potion was nice, whereas the pills tasted like ink and burned hair. Harry forced himself to chew on the pill under Madam Pomfrey's watchful gaze.

"The pills will work in minutes," she told him, "whereas the potion will take two days to return you to normal."

Swallowing the pill, Harry thanked her and rose to his feet. He wondered why she wasn't keeping him here for observation, which was in itself highly unusual since bed-rest was normally her cure for everything. His thoughts were drawn back to the flash of fear he had seen in her eyes as he had arrived. Did she and Riddle know something he didn't? Hmmm. This was troublesome. So as to not arouse even more suspicion, he smiled to Pomfrey and the Hufflepuff on his way out and headed back down to rejoin the school.

As he descended the stairs, one thought repeated over in his mind. _I am ill and my arm is useless and my magic is weak_, he thought. _Am I strong enough to make the trip to St. Mungo's?_

XXXXXX

An hour later, having had a quick breakfast, he headed down to the stands which were already packed even though there was still forty-five minutes before the 10:00 start. Already he was feeling a bit better and all set to face the day.

The crowd was a sea of green and silver at one end, and blue at the other. Those in the middle in their ordinary clothes divided the two groups of supporters. Harry climbed up the steps to the Ravenclaw end and emerged from the top of the thin wooden stairs onto the balcony. There was a rail four feet in front of him over which numerous flags and banners had been draped, displaying the house insignia for all to see. Up behind him, the rows of seats ascended into the stands. A group of seventh years were standing on the seats at the back, leaning against the rear wall on which they would bang their support. Harry noticed the bags from Hogsmeade tucked behind the seats. He was well aware that they contained a copious amount of alcohol which, judging by the singing, (the likes of which Harry would certainly not repeat in front of his mother) some of it had already done the rounds. There were no teachers here yet, so the singing went on.

"GREEN ARMY, GREEN ARMY!" sang the Slytherins with such force that the stadium seemed to reverberate.

A smile crossed Harry's face as he was caught up in the excitement. This was what he had missed throughout this war. He could feel the stamping of feet as the crowd cheered in anticipation long before the players had even taken to the pitch. This banter was what the game was all about. It all seemed so innocent compared to the circles Harry now travelled in.

"Dra-co Mal-foy, wherever you may be," sang Ravenclaw at the top of their voices. "You are the king of porn-o-graph-y!"

The rest of the words were lost amongst the jeers from the green end of the pitch. Harry couldn't quite make out the response, but he doubted it was polite. It certainly made a change from 'Weasley is our King'.

Harry stood at the front of the balcony overlooking the pitch and the lower tier below him. The sun was shining and the air was crisp. It was a good day for Quidditch.

"Good conditions," said a voice over Harry's shoulder as if reading his mind. His whole body tensed instantly, for he knew that voice all to well, and he made certain his Occlumency shields were strong. He turned slowly, his hand near his wand, to find Tom Riddle stood behind him. Harry was aware that the singing was now no longer rude. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a flash of pink as Dolores Umbridge made her way into the teacher's box, a nasty smirk on her toad-like face.

"Seems like it," said Harry cautiously, knowing that Riddle hadn't sought him out to discuss the weather. "And who's side are you supporting, Professor?" he asked making polite conversation for the sake of the students nearby, but keeping his guard up. His good arm dangled close to his wand, ready to move in an instant.

"As Headmaster, I cannot be seen to be biased in any direction," he said, turning to the pitch. "Though being human, I must confess a small preference for my former house."

"Your great ancestor would expect nothing less," said Harry icily.

"Touché," said Riddle, leaning over the barrier. "I was wondering Harry, if you would like to have tea with me this evening, for a quick chat."

Harry hesitated. It was a show of kindness but he felt uncomfortable with it. He had no desire to step into the dragon's den. Also, he thought back to Pomfrey's behaviour. He couldn't help but suspect that Riddle knew something and was planning to test him. He had this strange feeling that he was being manipulated. This was clearly a fact-finding mission. To refuse proved that he was hiding; to accept meant he could possibly expose himself unduly. Harry stood motionless, weighing his options carefully.

"Sure," he said at last, albeit reluctantly.

"Excellent," said Riddle with an almost kind smile. "Seven o'clock, then."

"I look forward to it," said Harry with a small nod, making sure his eyes never left the Headmaster's.

Riddle returned the nod with a small frown then turned and made his way over to the teacher's box, leaving Harry alone. Harry stood motionless for a moment contemplating Riddle's motives. He had a feeling he was being played, but he couldn't say why or to what end. Still, he would have to be careful this evening.

Just then a roar went up from the crowd as the Ravenclaw team took to the sky for a lap of honour.

_Am I strong enough?_ wondered Harry, his thoughts returning to the present and his objective._ Ill, weak magic, and an injured arm...Is it sensible to go?_

No it was not sensible, but then again, he was not a target in this world. He was not on Grindelwald's hit-list. Death Eaters would ignore him, and he didn't think St. Mungo's was a particularly dangerous place. Also, he could Flame out of there easily enough if something went wrong. Harry reached his decision.

_Time to make my move._

As the balls were released and the game began, no one saw a single figure in black slip away from the stands and disappear in a ball of flames.

XXXXXX

Harry reappeared in central London, inside a tube-station just around the corner from St. Mungo's. Nobody seemed to notice his arrival. He was in the same station in which he had evaded an Auror in the Unholy Land while on the run.

_Hmmm_, he mused. _What goes around comes around._ He hurried up the steps and out into the sunlight.

As he walked along the street in the bright February sunshine he was aware that the potions had worked a bit. His head was no longer pounding, although he still had a bit of a twinge; it had given a harsh throb as he Flamed but generally it was vastly improved from earlier in the day. He couldn't tell about his temperature – he still felt hot, he thought – but she had said it wouldn't work instantly.

The shop window that concealed the entrance to the hospital was no more than half a mile down the road. Harry walked it in less than five minutes and addressed the dummy in the window. He stepped through into the lobby, taking in the sterile smell of the hospital. His last few trips here had not been pleasant. They ranged from as a prisoner where he had accidently killed a man, to a near death Mr. Weasley at Christmas. No, St. Mungo's didn't hold happy memories for Harry.

He walked across the room to the help desk hoping for some information. It may very well be that the person he was looking for wasn't even here. The cheery sign behind the desk read, _Any question? Our staff will be happy to help._ This message had obviously not been conveyed to the bored looking witch at the desk.

"I'm here to see Gilderoy Lockhart," he said to the clerk politely.

"Up you go then," said the witch without looking up. "Sixth floor."

Harry was going to point out the sign to her, but refrained, unwilling to attract attention. Instead he headed past the witch into the hospital and made for the lift. By luck the lift opened as he approached and he boarded along with two witches who leaned against the side with disinterested expressions on their ordinary faces, gossiping about some wizard named Phil.

"Which floor d'ya want?" said one of them in a brummy accent.

"Six, please," said Harry.

The woman pressed the button for him and then turned back to her mate. Not wanting to earwig, Harry stared into the eyes of his own reflection in the polished door. In no time the doors slid open and the voice announced that this was the sixth floor.

Harry stepped out into another white corridor. In front of him was a wooden topped counter that was so high it looked more like a bar. Behind it sat a witch making notes on some parchment. Behind her were rows of shelves covered in beige files. Every few seconds one of the folders flew off the shelves of its own accord, rolled itself into a scroll and disappeared up a pipe. As Harry looked up he noted that along the roof ran many such pipes. As he watched he could see the shadows of files making their way along to where they were needed. It was like a complex traffic system.

"Clever," muttered Harry to himself, mildly impressed as always by the innovation of magic.

Around him there were people walking along the corridor. Some were in a hurry, some were ambling, and some were wandering around looking lost. Not having a clue where to go and feeling like one of the lost ones, Harry stepped up to the counter and peered over, coughing slightly. The witch looked up with a frown.

"I'm here to see Gilderoy Lockhart," said Harry politely.

"Ward 49," said the witch pointing down the corridor to the right. "Last door on the left."

"Thanks," said Harry, turning to leave.

"Wait!" said the witch suddenly.

Harry turned back, his insides twisting.

"Do I know you? You seem really familiar?"

Harry stared at the witch for a second, not knowing her from Eve.

"I don't think so," he said, and turned to leave before she could answer, just in case he should know her.

As Harry headed down the corridor, he approached a set of double doors on the left. He noted that, as well the smell of antiseptic, there was also the smell of fresh paint. Still, it was hardly something to be concerned about.

He pushed open the heavy double doors and stepped in. The room beyond was pure white and the sun shone in through the windows glistened off the floor, shooting up into Harry's eyes and temporarily blinding him. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the light. The room was long and quite thin, with seven beds along each side of the ward and a long table with chairs in the middle. Each bed was surrounded by a curtain rail, one of which was drawn closed, surrounding the bed in a veil of turquoise. Harry also noted that there was a small black globe the size of a golf ball embedded in the ceiling a few feet in front of him – a recording orb. He had seen this version of Magical CCTV before at the Ministry when he had been held by the Aurors in the Unholy Land. He briefly considered pulling his hood up, but most likely the orb would have caught him the moment he stepped into the room. Doing it now would look suspicious.

Outside, Harry could see the busy London street and the Muggles running around like ants. He stepped further into the room, looking left and right at the beds, searching for his old teacher. Of the fourteen beds, most were empty. He didn't know if they permanently were, or if the occupants were off elsewhere. The fourth bed along on the left had the curtains partially pulled, blocking much of it off from view. Looking down to conceal his face from the orb, Harry crossed to the bed.

As he stepped through the curtains, a familiar sight greeted him. A nurse was sitting on a chair to the side of the bed, as Gilderoy Lockhart sat cross-legged, madly signing photographs of himself. Some things never changed. He wore cream robes with magenta borders and he was holding a magnificent peacock quill with a large pile of photos yet to be signed to his right.

Harry paused, debating his approach. He had the choice of honesty, flattery, or force. Honest was no good with someone else there, and neither was force for the same reason. Flattery seemed best, as it would hopefully result in Lockhart wanting to help. No choice there; flattery it was, then.

"Hello," he said softly.

Both Lockhart and the nurse looked up.

"I'm here to see Mr Lockhart," Harry added, stepping inside the curtains. Lockhart's smile only broadened.

"Of course you are," he beamed. "After all, who wouldn't?"

"Indeed, who wouldn't?" repeated Harry, forcing a smile.

"And who are you?" asked the nurse warily.

"No one important," said Harry with a shrug. "Just a fan."

"Then for Merlin's sake, boy," said Lockhart excitedly, "pull up a chair. Make yourself comfy. You've travelled far and wide to see me, the least I can do is make my fans comfortable."

"Thank you," said Harry, sliding into the chair that Lockhart offered and trying not grimace at the man's attitude.

The former professor had dropped his quill which was now secreting a nicely sized blob of black into the white linen of the bed sheet. He sat with his legs swinging over the side of the bed flashing that award-winning smile at Harry, which was another way to say he was grinning inanely.

"It's okay, nurse," said Lockhart, dismissing her with a flick of his wrist. "Off you go."

Who did he think he was, royalty? _Not far off, probably_, mused Harry.

"The boy doesn't want to meet his hero with half of Florence Nightingale's School of Medicine leaning over our shoulders," Lockhart told the nurse in an impatient, pompous voice Harry remembered all too well.

The nurse looked slightly abashed, but rose to leave. As she passed she whispered to Harry, "Half an hour, he is not to leave this room. And whatever you do, don't give him sugar."

Harry could only nod. In all honesty, he thought that the sight of Lockhart buzzing off the E-numbers would be rather amusing, but knew that he wasn't here for his amusement. As she left, Harry turned back to face Lockhart only to see a black and white image of the man an inch from his eyes, a loopy signature scrawled all over it. By reflex he instantly recoiled at the invasion of his personal space.

"Err… thanks," said Harry, taking the proffered photograph and moving back a few feet.

"And some for your friends," said Lockhart shoving a pile of at least fifty towards him.

"Wow," said Harry at a loss. Unable to think of anything else, he added, "They'll be thrilled."

"Excellent," said Lockhart happily. "So, you've come all this way to meet me, have you? What do you want to know?" The eagerness in his voice would be almost pathetic had he not known the man before his accident. As it was, it was downright disgusting. Still, it was a good indication that he wasn't all barmy – any more than usual, at least.

"Well," said Harry, grateful that Lockhart had opened the door for him to begin the questions. "I must admit, that in your books – I've read them all by the way – I…"

But Lockhart cut him off. "They are brilliant, aren't they?" he said dreamily. "I even amaze myself, sometimes."

"Yes, well," said Harry, trying to steer him back onto the topic he needed. "I…."

Again he was cut off.

"Which was your favourite?" asked Lockhart enthusiastically.

"Err..." said Harry, panicking, unable to remember a single title. "The Werewolf one?"

"Ah yes," said Lockhart, staring absently at the ceiling, grinning as if reliving a pleasant memory, "My finest work."

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. "I did want to ask you though…" he began again trying to move the conversation forward, but Lockhart was a match for his attempt.

"How I do it?" he finished Harry's sentence with a flourish.

The former professor sat bolt upright and turned to Harry, his eyes wide and wild, his jaw set. When he spoke, his voice was deep and melodramatic, like a Shakespearean actor. "There comes a time when you are in the claws of death, when all hope hath faded, that every man is faced with a choice. Give up and die, or fight to your dying breath. I must be a fighter. I silence the voice of fear and soldier on – defeating tremendous odds, victorious in the face of adversity, never giving up…"

"WOW!" said Harry loudly with a tone of false admiration, cutting him off just to shut him up. "That's impressive."

Despite Harry's best attempt at flattery, Lockhart looked like he had been slapped as Harry interrupted his speech, which if Harry's suspicions were correct, he had rehearsed many times in front of a mirror. Lockhart stared at him for a second before he jerked his head, flicking a golden lock of hair out of his face and practically pouted. "Yes, it was rather impressive of me wasn't it?"

"I was actually going to ask you about an article in 1989," said Harry, trying to be less subtle as Lockhart obviously couldn't take a hint. "It was published in the Quibbler. You went looking for a legend about travelling to other worlds."

Lockhart's face took on that dreamy expression again, not a positive sign. "Did I?" asked Lockhart with renewed gusto.

Harry's heart fell – he had no memory of it at all. _Damn._

"Sounds like the sort of thing I would have done," smiled Lockhart merrily. There was a pause. "Did I find it?"

"No idea," answered Harry, disheartened. "That's what I wanted to ask you about. Do you remember anything about that?" he asked hopefully. "Anything at all?"

"Not a thing," said Lockhart, looking abashed for the first time. He quickly recovered though and the inane smile crept back onto his lips. "Do you have a copy of the article? I would love to add it to my collection." He pulled a huge scrap book out down the side of the bed. It was about a metre high and over half of one long. It was quite thick and Harry could see the edges of newspaper clippings stuck in there. Lockhart passed the book proudly to Harry who took it and opened it with trepidation.

As expected it was full of pictures and clippings all of which were about Lockhart. Harry flicked through, encountering nothing but endless pages of articles and hundreds of photos of the git.

"They are helping to bring back my memories," said Lockhart proudly. "That and my journal."

"Your what?" asked Harry, whipping his head upwards to stare at the former professor. A glimmer of hope flickered in his eyes and heart.

"My journal," replied Lockhart as if speaking to a simpleton. "My dear boy, even someone as profoundly brilliant as myself cannot remember every detail. I write things down."

_He made notes, _thought Harry with elation. _The imbecile made notes_. He needed to see that book. If Lockhart had made a note of who he had met, who had done that research, then hope remained.

"May I see it?" asked Harry hungrily. "You see, I want to be a writer too, and I could learn so much from a brilliant man like you. I'd love to see how your mind works."

"Well," said Lockhart in a cagey manner, his eyes darting to and fro frantically. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Not as such. They take it away. They don't want to give me too much too soon, they say." He glanced at the door and then picked up his quill and frantically began signing photos again, presumably trying to appear to the orb as if he was doing his usual.

Harry however was completely focused on the diary. Did it hold the key?

"How far back does it go?" asked Harry in a soft voice to appease the obviously paranoid Lockhart. Would it go back as far as 1989?

"Since I first started," said Lockhart proudly, suddenly normal again and throwing Harry for a loop. "It expands, so I will never need a new one. Right back to the early eighties."

Harry's heart skipped a beat. It covered the year in question! It would show where he had been. Fantastic!

"Professor, may I see it?" asked Harry again carefully so as to not spook him further. He was taking a chance that Lockhart might go spare again, but he didn't have a choice. He had to see that diary. "Please?"

"I don't have it," said Lockhart looking up with a bored expression. "They keep it. Too much too soon, they say, too much too soon."

He had to get his hands on the diary. Whether that simply meant asking for it, or if it meant breaking into the…wherever it was kept, Harry didn't know, but he had to get his hands on that journal.

"Professor," said Harry gently. "Do you know where it is now?"

"They keep it," he said unhelpfully repeating himself.

"_Where_ do they keep it?" asked Harry, a little more firmly.

"Somewhere safe," said Lockhart. "They promised."

"But where, exactly?" said Harry struggling to hide his impatience.

"I don't know," said Lockhart, and then looked around in panic and went back to frantically signing pictures. "I don't know, I don't know, I don't know," he repeated over and over again, rocking back and forth slightly.

Suddenly the doors burst open. Harry's hand shot to his wand. A rather plump nurse stood in the doorway carrying a small bottle of what Harry assumed was a potion for Lockhart, and also a large fluffy blue towel. "Right, Gilderoy, it's time for your medicine!"

A look of horror crossed Lockhart's face as the nurse marched across to him. All thoughts of the diary, the photographs, and Harry seemed to be forgotten. The woman took Lockhart by the hand and pulled him to his feet.

"Just a quick check up," she announced, "and then a bath."

Lockhart's face fell. He began to pull on the nurse's arm, trying to beak free like a petulant child. As Harry watched, he realised that Lockhart really was just a child. Harry had seen him learning to write last time in St. Mungo's, but now he saw it for real. Lockhart's mind had been wiped, leaving a blank canvas just like a newborn baby; the nurses were raising a fully-grown child. That was a job and a half. His tantrums must be a nightmare...

Lockhart's frantic protests didn't stop until he had been dragged outside by the witch. Harry sat in silence for a second, watching Lockhart disappear out into the corridor. He didn't need to stop them. Lockhart was no longer useful. All he needed now was that damned diary. Maybe he could ask the nurse for it. Would she give it to him? Unlikely, but she may give away where it was kept.

He rose to his feet and headed towards the door with a rough plan in his head. If he told her that Lockhart just wanted one of his possessions to show him, then the witch might get it, or at least confirm it was in storage. If he could gently push her into telling him where the journal was kept, he could get hold of it. No lock would keep him out.

Harry got to his feet and headed towards the door but he hadn't gone three feet when he froze. He felt a tingle on the back of his neck, a feeling that he was not alone. It was the same tingle of magic he had felt in Borgin and Burkes. Someone had appeared in the room.

Harry spun around, pulling his wand free from the harness.

The turquoise curtains around Lockhart's bed were still drawn, sheltering it from view. Harry crept back to the curtains and then, having braced himself, pulled them open. As he did, he saw a figure in a brown cloak bending over Lockhart's bed. He looked like a monk in the brown robes and hood, and his face was well tanned. His eyes were shining blue, and his expression was one of shock as he saw Harry turn.

"FREEZE!" barked Harry, levelling his wand at the man. The newcomer glanced back and forth looking terrified before his hand moved inside his robes. He was going for a wand!

"_Stupefy!"_

The curse left Harry's wand, but again it was little more than a weak orange sparkle. By the time it reached the man he had disappeared. As he had cast the spell, Harry's head had given another painful throb – his headache was returning.

Cursing loudly, Harry ran over to the bed where the man had been. Hang on...there was an Anti-Apparition ward here. How had he managed to…

_Oh,_ thought Harry in sudden understanding. The man must've had a Portkey inside his robes. It was the logical assumption. That didn't answer the question of just what a stranger was doing snooping through Lockhart's stuff, though. Harry didn't know for a fact that he was snooping, but the man had entered when Lockhart was out, and he had run rather than explain himself, which was suspicious at the very least. Harry stood where the stranger had been second before and looked around, perplexed.

"What were you searching for?" he mused aloud.

It had not been the man he had fought in Borgin's or in the forest - that was certain. Who was he, then?

Harry's eyes scanned the area, searching for clues. The bed was unmade and covered in photos of a smiling Lockhart. These even spilled over on to the floor. On the table at the side was a lamp, a box of tissues, a large bowl of fruit, and more stacks of pictures. Harry opened the drawer, hoping to find something useful. Inside were various bits and pieces of Lockhart paraphernalia. Nothing seemed to be of value or importance. He rummaged through and found nothing. Frustrated, he closed the drawer and turned his attention back to the bed. He lifted the pillow, but found nothing underneath.

_Come on,_ he thought. People don't sneak into a person's room to look for nothing.

Harry pulled the sheet right off the bed and checked the mattress beneath. No rips, pockets or anywhere to hide anything. He threw the sheets onto the floor and then dropped into a press-up position to look under the bed. Shining his wand up into the frame of the bed, Harry checked the corners. It was there that he found it – a small leather-bound book.

Harry reached up and took it, sliding out from under the bed. Back in the light, he could see a word printed into the front: DIARY. Could it be? Harry opened it and swept through, letting the pages ripple through his fingers. He came to a stop in 1989, the year of the article. It was Lockhart's alright... a complete log of his trips to Greece and Turkey. Harry grinned to himself. He had the diary. Excellent!

Pocketing it, he stood up and headed back for the door and then froze again. It wasn't due to magic this time, but his own suspicion. Whether it was the Dark Knight or Harry who was suspicious he didn't know, but something felt wrong. Of all the times to try to steal a diary, the man just happened to have chosen the time when Harry was there? Not sixty seconds after he had asked about the diary, a man had broken in to steal it?

That diary had apparently been confiscated by St. Mungo's nurses, but Lockhart had it hidden under his bed all the time? Lockhart hadn't known it was there, or at least hadn't told Harry. Had he known and had deceived Harry, or did he genuinely not know it was there? If Lockhart didn't know it was there that meant he hadn't put it there himself. If he didn't know it was there, how did the would-be thief know it was there? None of it made sense. The timing was too coincidental. Did that make the diary a suspect source? Had it perhaps been planted? Was it a fake? But who would fake a diary? ...Someone trying to stop Harry finding a way home? But no one knew who he was or what he was trying to do, so who would be actively trying to stop him?

It was too confusing, and his head was starting to pound again from the effort of trying to work it out. He did know that he would have to treat the information he got from it very carefully indeed. Deciding that, in light of this intruder, it was definitely time to leave he headed quickly for the door, but something made him stop and forget all about Lockhart, the stranger, and the journal. He had just noticed a golden plaque above the door.

_The Lily and James Potter Memorial Ward._

To the left of the words, a picture of his mother had been etched delicately into the brass and a similar picture of his father on the right. The pictures were exquisite, the artistry divine. It must have taken someone ages. To the side of the door was a smaller plaque with words engraved. Harry moved closer to read it.

"_The newly refurbished ward 49 is dedicated to the memory of Lily and James Potter who tragically died in a fire here on 7__th__ December 1996."_

Of course! This was the long-term ward, the one on which Harry's parents had died in a fire last December. Presumably, the fire had also killed the Harry of this world. As Harry stared into the eyes of his mother's portrait, he suddenly felt a pang of homesickness. His body suddenly felt so…alone. He could almost sense the air around him and the rough scrape of his clothes. He wanted desperately to feel his mother's arms around him. He didn't want to be in this hellhole of a world. Mum, Dad, and Rose were all waiting for him in one world, Ron and Hermione were waiting in another. At this point in time, he would seriously consider going back to his mother, Voldemort be damned.

Harry shivered, feeling more lost than ever. He had to concentrate on the weight of the diary in his pocket to remind him that there was still hope. Still, it didn't stop a feeling of sickness rising in his stomach, though that might have something to do with his returning headache. He had to get out of here.

Harry pushed open the doors and stepped out, heading right, back towards reception.

"Good morning, Mr. Potter," said a voice as Harry passed. He froze. Someone knew him.

The voice was female, but not cold or aggressive – if anything it was polite and friendly. Harry turned to see the receptionist he had spoken to earlier standing behind the counter and watching him with a smile on her face.

"I knew I recognised you," said the witch.

Harry crossed to the desk so that they were not shouting across a corridor.

As he arrived at the counter, she spoke again. "I thought you were dead, I thought you had died when…" she motioned towards the ward from which he had come. "Then I read in the _Prophet_ about you, and…I'm so glad you're alright."

"Er…thanks," said Harry, forcing a smile. He didn't have a clue who she was but she clearly knew him, probably from his numerous visits to his parents. He had to be polite, but at the same time he had to get out of here quickly. If anyone learned he had been here, especially Riddle, it would raise too many questions.

"Visiting them to say goodbye?" asked the witch, coming around the front of the counter.

"Yeah," said Harry, quickly conjuring a story. "And to see Lockhart. He's an old acquaintance." There was no point denying this as he had asked her earlier where he was. Also, it appeared that he was volunteering information, rather than hiding it.

"Yes, you have visited so many times you would know everyone on that ward," she said sadly. "Gilderoy was the only survivor of the fire, aside from yourself. His infernal habit of wandering off saved his life. He was on another floor at the time."

"Lucky him," said Harry vaguely, not really caring. "Not everyone was so fortunate. Or perhaps, he was the ill-fated one. The others are now at peace."

"Don't think like that," said the witch kindly. "It was a tragedy, and the Aurors will find who was responsible."

"What?"

Harry's head whipped up at the last words. Aurors were involved? There was an investigation? The witch now had his full attention. Riddle had said it was just a fire, an accident, but now he found that it might not have been. Convenient of him to leave that bit out.

"Oh, you know how long these investigations can take," said the nurse offhandedly, shrugging. "Well, actually you probably don't. Anyway, they're always hovering around, taking the recordings from the viewing orbs and still interviewing staff. Between you and me, part of me wishes they would put it down to an accident and leave."

Two months later and Aurors were still coming and going? That was strange if it was an accident. If it wasn't…well, with Fudge in his current mindset it was no wonder the_ Prophet_ hadn't mentioned anything.

"They suspect foul play?" asked Harry, intrigued.

"No," said the witch suddenly twitchy. She shifted her weight slightly and began to rotate her wedding ring in a nervous gesture. Harry knew that he had stuck gold.

"We have been told not to talk about it," the witch added in a hushed whisper. She looked around, presumably checking for Aurors or anyone listening. After a few seconds she turned back to Harry and sighed. "Then again, I suppose you of all people have a right to know," she said. "You lost more than anyone in that fire." She took a deep breath and looked around once more before speaking, again in a hushed whisper. "Officially, the Ministry believe it to be an accident and the _Prophet_ has published an article to that effect. However an Auror team keeps coming back. It's a small team, supposedly doing some follow-up work as they call it. Part of me has a sneaking suspicion that there is more to it than meets the eye."

"Who are they?" asked Harry. "Did they give names?" He had a sneaking suspicion these weren't ordinary Aurors. If the Ministry had covered it up with a story about a fire, there was only one set of Aurors who would defy the Minister and investigate – Order Aurors.

"They don't offer names," said the witch shrugging. "Top Secret and all that. I did overhear the leader being called…hang on…it's…" she stammered looking puzzled.

Was she confounded or just couldn't remember?

"It's on the edge of my tongue. Locksmith? No...Chain-something? Bolt head?"

Suddenly Harry understood.

"Shacklebolt?" he asked. "Kingsley Shacklebolt?"

"That's the one," said the witch with a relieved look. "Knew we'd get there in the end. Do you know him?"

His suspicions had been confirmed. "We've met," said Harry before realising in this world they had not. He hastily offered an explanation. "I mean, he interviewed me after I came back to Hogwarts."

"Sounds about right," she told him, a hint of bitterness in her voice. "All he does is interview people and get in the way."

"That's the Ministry for you," said Harry with a grin, though inside he was definitely not smiling. "Look, I've got to get going," he said "Got to get back to Hogwarts, you know. Lots of studying to do. Nice to see you again. Take care." He waved to the witch as he turned quickly and headed for the lifts as she called out her own friendly good-byes.

That conversation had been most enlightening and he knew what he needed to do next. He had no intention of returning to Hogwarts, not until another of his questions had been answered. He pressed the button for the lift and, as he waited, he scanned the board to the side of the lift which housed a directory of the various floors. As the queue for the lift grew and other people bustled past, Harry scanned the list.

"Where are you?" he muttered. Suddenly he saw what he was after. On the second floor was written the words 'Security Office'.

_Bingo!_

The lift doors opened after another few seconds and Harry stepped in and jabbed the button for the second floor with his thumb. Without warning, he was instantly swept to the back by seven other people pushing their way into the cramped compartment after him. With so many people in it, the lift stopped at every floor on the way down. Harry grimaced, but didn't complain aloud or show his irritation. Better to blend in. At last the doors opened to the second floor and he stepped out, grateful to be able to move again. He had been squished up against an old lady who smelled of wet dog. The cramped lift had done nothing to alleviate his headache, which had returned in force ever since he had cast that Stunning Charm.

Harry raised a hand and rubbed his throbbing forehead for a moment before contemplating the sign on the wall in front of him. He turned left and headed through a set of double doors as directed by the sign and began to walk along the deserted passage. Finally, after about another twenty metres he saw a large door. On the outside was marked 'Security'. Next to the door was a window through which Harry could see into the Security Office. There were three desks in the small room, and each was equipped identically with a lamp, filing trays, quills and folders. The only marks of individuality were the brightly coloured coffee cups each of them had on their desk. Behind each desk sat a witch or wizard in navy blue robes who seemed to be working. At the back of the room was a thick steel door, the edges of which were glowing blue. There was a small window in the door and Harry could see another passage through it.

It was time to take a chance. Taking a deep breath Harry concentrated on the window and the other side of the secure door then disappeared in a ball of flames. His jump was accurate and he reappeared in the passage on the far side of the office with the occupants none the wiser.

He instantly crouched down so he couldn't be seen through the window and looked down the corridor, taking in his surroundings as he steadied himself. The Flaming had made him feel sick. Whatever was wrong with him seemed to respond very badly to magic. Making a connection that had not occurred to him before, Harry realised with a glimmer of fear that every time he used magic his condition got worse. Pomfrey's pills and potions had controlled it and let him use magic again temporarily, but they hadn't taken the pain away totally. Now that the potions were wearing off, the pain was returning. Until he was over this…thing, using magic would make him weaker.

He cursed inwardly. That could leave him stuck here if his magic failed from overuse. He made a mental note to use no more magic until he was safely back at Hogwarts.

As he removed the fake glasses, pulled the hood of his cloak up over his head, and secured the scarf up over his chin to block his face, his head gave another powerful throb confirming the point that he shouldn't linger. Carefully he stood up and headed quickly down the corridor, looking at the signs on the doors as he passed. Cautiously he passed the armoury, WC, storeroom, cells, and staffroom before he came to a door marked monitoring station. This should be it.

Harry opened the door and stepped in quietly, calling up the Dark Knight's skills at stealth. Inside a man sat at a control panel. In front of him was a giant window on which many images were shown in variously sized circles of light. The bubbles of images moved slowly about the screen as the guard watched them.

_Creak!_

The door hadn't closed silently. The guard turned instantly to find Harry framed in the doorway. An expression of shock and confusion crossed his face before his hand flew to his wand.

Harry was quicker off the mark than the guard who had no room to manoeuvre in his chair. As the man tried to rise from his chair, Harry surged forward. The guard swished his wand, shooting a jet of red light at Harry who lightly sidestepped. He was so close that the guard tried brute force rather than another spell for his next attack. Going hand to hand with the Dark Knight was a mistake at the worst of times. Even off, Harry was lethal when he needed to be. Harry ducked the blow easily and grabbed the arm as it passed. He swept the man's legs out from under him with his left foot and as he fell, Harry dropped, driving his knee into the man's chest with his full weight. The guard spluttered as the air was forced out of him. Harry grabbed his head by the hair and then slammed it into the hard floor. The man went limp.

Harry checked the fallen guard's pulse to make sure he was alive. Satisfied, he looked around the darkened room again. Aside from the viewing pane, there were rows and rows of shelves with dates printed on the end of them. Luckily, this current year was nearest to them. Harry walked quickly over to last year's shelf and then moved along until he came to December. There were various bottles of what appeared to be a Penseive like substance, except that it was a dull grey colour not silver. Maybe it was because this was magically generated, rather than from someone's mind. Harry moved along the section for December of last year, looking for the date of the fire: the bottle was gone.

Cursing, Harry went back over the guard. He knelt next to the unconscious body and then, using the man's belt, he tied his hands behind his back. He used the man's own shoelaces to bind his feet. It was far from foolproof, but it was the best he could do without magic. Satisfied that the man couldn't move, Harry put the wand he had confiscated from the guard well out of the way. He was fairly sure that the guard couldn't escape.

Harry then picked up the untouched mug of tea, which was stone cold and full to the brim, and calmly threw its contents into the man's face. The cold liquid instantly brought the guard back to consciousness. The man groaned and opened his eyes a fraction looking groggy, but as the room came into focus and he saw Harry, or rather a hooded figure in black bent over him, and his eyes went wide.

Harry clamped his hand over the man's mouth so he couldn't shout out for help.

"Don't scream," he told the man in a voice muffled by the scarf. "Call for help and the next person who walks through that door will die." He deliberately made his words low and threatening knowing the effect he'd have on the spineless older wizard. "Now, tell me...the records the Aurors took, are there copies?"

Harry released his grip on the man's mouth cautiously as the guard lay gaping like a fish.

"Tell me!" repeated Harry dangerously, gripping the man's collar tightly enough to enforce the threat of strangulation.

"N…no," said the guard in a hurried whisper. "All copies were taken."

_Damn_, thought Harry in frustration. He needed a copy of them. _Surely there must be backups or something?_

"All of them?"

"Yes, all of them!" the guard repeated, his eyes wide with fear.

"No backups, archives, private copies, or anything?"

"I wouldn't be allowed to see them if there were," he said shaking his head and looking terrified.

"What do you mean?" asked Harry. Was he suggesting that there might be copies after all?

"If there were any, the top brass would keep them," said the guard. "In his office."

"Where is that?"

"Next door, to the right," mumbled the guard.

"Thanks," said Harry. He gripped the man's head once more and slammed it into the floor.

As the guard slumped unconscious, Harry checked to make certain he would be alright then slipped out the door and back into the corridor. It was thankfully deserted and only the sounds of muffled voices in the main office were audible. He paused to listen before moving further along the corridor to the next door, which was marked "Brian Carter – Head of Security".

Harry knocked gently on the door.

He waited a few seconds in case the room was occupied. Receiving no response, he opened the door which, thankfully, was unlocked. Once inside, he closed it quietly, not making the same mistake twice. The room inside was fairly plain. The walls were white and the carpet a caramel colour. A tidy desk containing only a lamp, a pot of quills, a letter opener, and a pile of parchments stood at the far end with a chair behind it. There was a false window like the ones found throughout the Ministry in one wall, beneath which was a wooden cabinet with a vase of fresh flowers on top, an odd thing to see in a man's office. In the far corner was a metal filing cabinet. The entire office was meticulously arranged and so Harry made a note to be tidy. Any movement of items would most likely be noticed.

Crossing to the filing cabinet first, it was, as he had expected – locked. He considered trying to open it with his wand, but it was most likely charmed so that it could only be opened by the wand that had locked it. Harry couldn't afford the noise needed to magically break it by force, if he was even capable of doing the spell properly. Instead he opted for the Muggle approach. It meant he would probably leave traces of his presence, but that couldn't be helped. He would be gone by the time they worked it out.

Harry went to the desk and picked up a quill. As expected it was one of the flashy kind that had the stalk encased in metal, in this instance silver. With a snap he removed the feathers and threw them in the bin, keeping only the metal part.

Moving back to the cabinet, he pressed the tip of the quill into the lock. Then, pulling the diary from his pocket, he put it across the top of the metal so as to not dig into his hand. That done, Harry clenched his fist and brought it down hard on the diary, forcing the metal tip of the quill into the lock. Again he hit the diary hard, driving the quill tip further into the lock. There was a dull thud and a crack. Harry put the book down and, taking the top drawer by the handle, wrenched the drawer open with force. In the top of the drawer resting on the files was the remains of the lock. Harry pocketed the diary and stood back up. He began to flick through the files, but files were all the drawer contained. No bottles, nothing of value. Harry closed it and opened the bottom drawer. Again, there was nothing but files.

Harry reached up into the corner of the cabinet, putting the lock roughly back in place. He gently closed the drawer. It would be enough to satisfy a quick glance, but nothing more. It didn't matter if it wasn't perfect. He didn't plan on sticking around to get caught. Next he crossed to the desk and opened the drawers to that, searching inside. In the top were various items, including a photo of a girl he assumed was the man's daughter and a collection of notes. In the middle drawer Harry came across something more useful. There was a small red lockbox.

Harry picked it up and put in on the desk and as he tilted it he heard something move inside. Laying it down on the desk, he took out his quill again. He was about to jam it into the lock when the sound of crisp footsteps sounded outside the door. Someone was coming. Quickly he thrust the box back in the drawer and closed it.

Harry had two choices Flame out, or stay and force the location of the information he was seeking from the security chief. In an instant he made his choice: it would be the latter. He needed to see what had happened that day when his other self had been killed, although he wasn't exactly sure why. At this point he was being driven by instinct. Something told him it was important.

Crossing to the other side of the room, he hid behind the door. He had only just got there when the door was pushed open and a man in smart blue robes walked into the office carrying a cup of coffee. He was a tall man with brown hair and a thick moustache. As soon as he entered he turned to push the door back closed and caught sight of Harry as he did so.

The man didn't have time to react before Harry grabbed him by the lapels, swung his foot behind Carter's knees and swept him over, slamming his body into the floor. The only sounds were the thuds as Carter hit the floor, followed by the splash of his cup of boiling coffee as it rained down over his chest a second later. To his credit the chief ignored the scald and immediately reached for his wand, but Harry was too quick. He grabbed his wrist, slamming it into the floor and causing the chief to lose his grip on it. Harry twisted Carter's arm ruthlessly into a position where he could break it if he chose to, not that he would.

"Listen very carefully," whispered Harry, twisting the arm roughly to reinforce the point. "I shall say this only once." Harry was grateful that the hood and his scarf, which was wrapped over his face, were enough to hide his identity as the man looked fit to kill. "I need the security recordings of the fire."

The man made a rude gesture. Harry sighed and gave the arm a sharp twist. He didn't dare break the arm, but it would surely hurt. Carter's eyes went wide and were it not for Harry clamping his free land over his mouth, he would have cried out.

"Answer me," whispered Harry. He raised an arm and concentrated on the letter opener on the desk. The blade suddenly flew across the room. It wobbled in mid-air and landed with a thud a foot short of where Harry was, but it was close enough. Grabbing it, Harry raised the blade to the man's neck. Carter's eyes grew wider, but still he shook his head. A man of principle. Harry didn't like to do this to a good man but desperate times called for desperate measures.

"You are no use to me dead," he said. He raised the knife, placing the tip against the man's crotch.

He paused as the man's eyebrows flew upwards in disbelief. Harry began to slowly apply pressure. It wasn't nice to be doing this, but he needed answers. It took fifteen seconds of slowly increasing pressure before the man began to nod frantically. Harry removed the knife and the chief spoke in an angry but resigned voice.

"Cabinet by the window...inside map of London."

Harry released him, picking up his wand in his right hand as he did and aiming it at Carter's chest. The chief didn't know the situation with Harry's magic, so it was enough of a threat.

"Get it for me!"

Carter shot him a glare and then climbed shakily to his feet. He crossed the room to the cabinet under the window slowly. Kneeling down by the cabinet, he opened the door. Inside on the top shelf were several large, rolled-up maps. Each was labelled with the name of a major city. Carter picked up the London one and tilted it. Sure enough, out the end slid a small bottle of greyish liquid. _Eureka!_

"I needed it for my investigation," he said, holding up the bottle. "How I can run a security team if I can't learn from my mistakes. They take everything."

"This is the night of the fire?" he asked. "I have been through your desk Mr. Carter, I know where you live. Think very carefully before you try to pull a quick one."

"This is the right night," replied the chief, quickly glancing at the drawer, which housed the picture of his daughter. His eyes became wide as he saw that the drawer had indeed been opened.

"Give it to me," instructed Harry, feeling a bit guilty but sticking to his decision. He'd come too far to back out now, not when the answers were right in front of him.

Harry kept the wand in his right hand aimed at the chief, and extended his left. Carter held out the bottle to him. Excellent. Harry reached for the bottle, but as his fingers touched it Carter's other hand clamped over Harry's left arm, pulling him forward and swinging his other arm in a clothesline. Harry instinctively ducked, but Carter still held his arm. The older man yanked him back, nearly pulling his already injured arm out of its socket. Harry managed not to cry out, but was forced back into Carter's firing line. With an awesome display of strength, Carter's hand clamped over Harry's neck. He picked Harry up and, running forward, slammed him hard against the wall, holding him a foot off the ground by his neck. Harry's hand clamped over Carter's wrist to stop him from choking the life out of him, but he was too strong.

"Now, boy," sneered Carter angrily. "You will answer _me_. Who are you?" He reached up and pulled Harry's hood down, exposing his face. "I said, who are you?" he repeated when Harry didn't answer – not that he could with Carter's hand around his throat.

_At least he didn't recognise me,_ thought Harry as he struggled to break free.

It was an underhand move, but it was all Harry could think of to do. With monumental effort, he brought his knee up hard into Carter's groin. The chief roared in pain, but did not let go. Again, Harry's knee assaulted the family jewels and he felt the grip slacken. Reaching up, he grabbed the vase of flowers off the cabinet and raised it high above his head. The vase came crashing down on Carter's head with all Harry's strength, shattering and spilling water everywhere. Lilies rained down on the pair of them. Harry felt his grip slacken as Carter crashed into unconsciousness.

"Sweet dreams," muttered Harry bitterly, stepping over the body and picking up the bottle with the recording in it. He looked back at the remains of the office, every bone in his body aching from the confrontation. _So much for leaving no evidence_, he thought with a groan.

He glanced back down at Carter who was lying in a pool of soaked carpet covered in bits of vase and flowers. Hopefully he'd be okay. Harry pulled the scarf off from around his neck and quickly wiped down where he had laid his hands, removing fingerprints. That done, he turned to leave.

It took another ten seconds to slip back into the monitoring room. Harry stepped over the fallen guard and poured the contents of his bottle into the grey bowl in the centre of the desk. In front of him a new bubble appeared on the viewing screen. Harry reached out and touched it instinctively. Instantly it grew larger, taking up the whole screen.

The screen showed the old Long Term ward, as if Harry was standing above the doors. The old room was similar to the way it was now, but not as bright. What was now white had once been dark stone. There were twelve beds, six on each side of the room and most of them were occupied. The only ones that had their curtains drawn were the two at the end. Lockhart could be seen in the third bed on the left, signing photographs. Just then he looked up, directly at Harry, or in truth, at the orb. He glanced around to make sure that there was no one around and then stood up. He put his hands in his pockets and walked casually, though he looked even more suspicious, away from the bed towards the middle of the room.

Harry almost laughed as Lockhart picked up a potted plant and, holding it in front of him, walked towards the door. _What a disguise,_ thought Harry. As he watched, Lockhart disappeared beneath the orb and out into the corridor beyond view. That stupidity had saved his life, Harry realised. Just then, two figures entered the room and headed over to the far two beds on the right hand side. Harry felt a shiver run down his spine and his stomach tense. It was himself! He was actually looking at himself in another universe.

Now he knew why his claim of being from another world had been so hard to accept for those he had told in the Unholy Land. It was just…weird. Also, looking at the other Harry, he could see why Katie was so suspicious of him. Always on the skinny side, this Harry was chubbier than he'd ever been, and his hair was longer and scruffier. But that wasn't the biggest difference though. The main difference that Harry could see was his posture. The Harry on the monitor carried himself with slumped shoulders, his head bowed forward like the world had defeated him. He looked so helpless, so beaten, a complete contrast to how Harry himself walked. If only Harry had seen this earlier, he might have been able to blend in more affectively...

Harry stared at the figure on the screen, a curious shiver running down his spine, as if someone had walked over his grave. Was this the feeling he would get when he finally encountered the Harry from the Unholy Land? This Harry was harmless, not a monster and not the Dark Knight. Harry quickly thrust the thought from his mind. It was not the time to worry about what might happen in the future, he was interested in the past here.

On the screen, Harry was accompanied by McGonagall who walked a few paces behind him. As they parted the curtains to enter, Harry caught a brief glimpse of the beds, but no sign of his parents. Instead another man stepped out, a healer by the look of him, dressed in the turquoise green uniform they always wore. He spoke to Harry and McGonagall, shaking the latter's hand. They held a brief conversation for a few seconds and Harry wished the recording has sound. As it was, he could only guess what was being said. After a few seconds, the healer guided Harry inside behind the curtain. McGonagall on the other hand turned to leave.

Nothing much happened for the next minute or so. There was general movement from those around the ward, but curtains prevented Harry from seeing what was happening with his parents. Harry's eyes scanned the picture for any sign of anything that might start a fire. He didn't spot anything obviously dangerous.

Suddenly another person entered through the bottom of the image. A figure entered dressed all in black, with a cloak pulled high over his head masking his face. He moved cautiously, like a cat, and carried a box under one arm.

Harry felt another shiver run down his spin. That was the same man he had fought twice, and twice had not come out on top. It was in his manner, the way he moved, the caution of his posture. It was definitely him, though he'd never seen his face. Harry realised that his fist had involuntarily clenched. Forcing himself to relax, he turned his attention back to the screen.

The figure in black placed the box on the table in the middle of the room. A second later, the healer came out from the Potters' area, reading from a clipboard. The figure must have called to the healer, for he looked up and approached the figure in black. Harry really wished there was sound. The figure spoke to the healer for a few seconds before placing one hand on the man's shoulder and gesturing to an empty bed. The man led the healer towards the bed and drew the curtains around them. There was stillness in the room for nearly thirty seconds before the figure in black immerged from the curtains, this time moving at top speed. He crossed to the box he had left on the table and opened it. Harry was suddenly aware that the Healer had not come out of the curtains. As Harry watched, the figure in black finished fiddling with whatever was in the box. Leaving it in place, he quickly headed for the door. There was stillness for a few seconds, and then a flash before sudden darkness. The image disappeared, leaving the room and Harry in darkness.

"The orb was destroyed," he said aloud to no one in particular. "It was a bomb."

Riddle had said it was a fire, but it wasn't, it was an attack. He thought his parents had died in an accident, but they hadn't. It was murder, and to make matters worse, they were murdered by the same person who had twice beaten Harry.

_I had him,_ he thought bitterly._ I had him and I let him go. _

_Murdered._

The word was repeating over and over in his mind. This was not an accident.

Sudden comprehension dawned. He realised that his parents and his other self had not been murdered for a purpose. They had been collateral damage. The real target was the healer – that was who the killer had been interested in, not him and not his parents. They just happened to be there, in the wrong place at the wrong time. Whoever the man in black was, he had been willing to kill a whole ward of innocents just to remove one Healer.

Harry felt a flush of rage.

This put a new spin on everything, but what made it worse was Riddle. The Order knew all about this incident, knew that it was murder not an accident, because Shacklebolt was in charge. Riddle had sat him down and told him that his parents had died in a fire when he knew all along that it was murder. Why hadn't the son-of-a-bitch told him? They were his parents – he had a right to know.

Harry stood glowering in the darkness, imagining Riddle sitting opposite him, telling him it was all an accident.

Fire? No! It was an explosion, a bomb. Call it what it was: murder. Then again, what did he expect of Lord Voldemort? He knew better than to trust the bastard.

"HEY!"

Harry spun round as the lights came on. Another guard was standing in the door. Harry stood blinking in the light, standing over the unconscious body of another guard.

"Freeze, you son of a bitch!"

* * *

**Auror's Notes:**

**There's another chapter for you - hope you enjoyed it. Chapters 4 and 5 were originally the same chapter, so I had to split it. Chapters 5 and 6 are already up on my Yahoo!Group. Yahoo Search for A Stranger in an Unholy Land or search for Stranger Trilogy Yahoo Group. **

**Next time: **

**Chapter V  
Groundhog Day  
**

**Harry's condition continues to worsen, leaving him completely defenceless. With little magic left, Harry's resourcefulness and loyalty are put to the test as a sneak betrays her friends. A brief holiday yields some positive results for Harry, but just as things begin to look up, disaster strikes leaving Harry with a choice.**


End file.
